Poor Girl: All We've Got
by CuriousFlynn
Summary: While updating their Shield personnel files, Clint comes across something Natasha never wanted him to know. Three years earlier, Clint and Natasha are barely speaking when Fury sends them on a mission to Budapest. While trying to uncover the plot of a terrorist cell, can Clint and Natasha keep their personal relationship from jeopardizing the mission, and their lives?
1. Poor Girl Part 1

"Why are we even doing this again?" Clint asked as he sorted through stacks of paper and manila file folders spread out on the coffee table.

"Shield is updating its paper record system, you know, in case Stark ever come to play again."

"I know that. Why do we have to organize our own files? Doesn't shield have secretaries for that?"

"With a high enough clearance to see what we've been through?"

"Point taken."

"Here," said Natasha, striding over with her own neatly stacked folder in hand. "Let me help."

"Tony did say you made a pretty good secretary," he chuckled. "I'm gonna pay for that later, aren't I?"

"You have no idea." Natasha smiled mischievously and handed him her file. "Check over mine and I'll organize yours."

"Works for me, though I'm pretty sure we're never supposed to share our files with anyone."

"Please, Clint," she said, "I could write that for you."

"You think we don't have any secrets left from each other?"

"Something you want to tell me?"

"Just wondering," he shrugged.

"None that are important enough to be in here." She took his scattered papers over to the breakfast nook were she was working and started organizing his file. "Remember Geneva?" she smiled as she put the mission report in line with the others.

"Remember Krakow?" said Clint as he flipped through hers. He hand slipped as he chuckled to himself, and some on Natasha's papers spilled onto the floor.

"You better fix that," she said without turning around.

He placed the rest of the file on the table before him and bent to pick up the papers that had fallen. One folder in particular caught his attention. It was part of Natasha's medical history that has been sealed on the side with a sticker that read SHIELD: CLASSIFIED MATERIAL. The files inside had slipped out the top and onto the carpet. He glanced at the cover page, intending to ignore the report and put it away, but the words typed there caught him and held him there. _Poor girl_, he couldn't stop himself from thinking.

"Natasha," he said softly. She turned to look at him, and saw what file her partner had in his hands.

Her eyes flicked quickly to the burgundy carpet. "I didn't know that was in there. It's supposed to be redacted," she said quietly.

"Tasha, you never told me you had an abortion," he said. His voice was gentle, sad.

"There've been four," she said, still not meeting his eyes.

He held out his hand and she obeyed him, letting him pull her down to the couch. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. He took her thin pale hand in his and kissed her on the top of he head. "I'm sorry."

"It's. . ." she started, wanting to pull away. This wasn't a secret she shared often, ever in fact. She had buried it away in her mind as if it never existed. Almost. She took a deep breath and let herself stay, resting her head on Clint's shoulder. "Thanks."

"How did. . ." he started, spreading out the file to see four identical documents.

"Occupational hazard, I suppose," she said.

"There wasn't a better way?"

"Espionage is a messy game."

"Yes, but Natasha. . ."

"I try not to think about it."

"I can't believe Fury let this happen to you."

"He didn't. Not all the way. Only the last two were under Shield."

Clint looked closer at the date stamped on the first document. "You were fifteen? Tasha. . ."

"It's okay, Clint. It was a long time ago."

He opened his mouth to say something, but he stopped.

"What?"

"Nothing. It's just. . .how do you deal with it?"

"How am I so heartless, you mean?"

"You're not heartless. That's why I'm asking."

"Sometime missions don't turn out as planned. Sometimes you get hurt. Every mission brings pain. These ones were just. . .different, a different kind of wound treated in a different way. Clint, please don't think less of me, I . . ."

"I would never think less of you Natasha. Maybe a bit less of the people in charge. . ."

She smiled. "They why to you look so sad?"

"I'm tired of watching you getting hurt."

They fell silent for a while. Clint ran his fingers through Natasha's fiery hair. She held on to his calloused palm.

Clint scanned the file laying out on the table. "So, a stable boy who trafficked in state secrets, a notoriously sleazy Russian congressman and an Saudi oil prince."

"Yes?"

"You sure can pick 'em."

Natasha breathed a little laugh. "Ok, we're done with the sentimental for today," she said, patting his knee and standing up. She had taken a few steps away when Clint picked up the fourth document.

"Who was the last guy?" Most of the file had been redacted: man's name, mission number, facility location, everything. All that remained was a date.

"It doesn't matter."

"Seriously, who was he? You've already got criminals, politicians and royalty, who's more secret than that."

"Drop it Clint."

"Throw me a bone."

"Fine. It was the president."

"Of what?"

"Or where?" she teased, reaching for the file.

"Wait." said Clint suddenly. Natasha stopped. She could feel her heart rate increasing behind her placid mask. Clint stared at the file, at the date innocently typed in the box. "July 27, 2009" he read out loud. "That was right after Budapest."

"I suppose so," she said calmly.

"Right after Budapest, where we were sequestered in a crappy little apartment for three months doing surveillance before we hit battle." He felt like all the oxygen had been sucked from the room, like a haze was clouding over his vision. Fear and rage knotted up in his chest so tight he wanted to throw up. "Natasha, is this me?" he stammered.

She wouldn't look him in the eye. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her closer, holding the redacted file beside her face. "Natasha," he asked again, fighting for air in his lungs, "_is this me?"_

Her eyes quivered. He could feel her pulse racing under his grip on her wrist. "Clint let me go," she said, her voice about to crack.

"How could you?"

"I'm warning you Clint, let me go."

"Natasha!" he screamed. She could feel the pain reverberating in his voice.

She counted slowly in her head. 3 . . .2 . . .1 . . . . She swung her leg up in a high kick, dropping her weight onto Clint's arm and breaking his grip.

He dove in, faked a hook punch and caught her block. Grabbing her wrist, he twisted her arm behind her head, stretching her shoulder back until even she couldn't move. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Natasha drove her heel into his kneecap and bit down onto his muscular wrist. He let go and immediately dove after her again. She flipped out of his reach, landing in a handstand on the back of the couch. It teetered on it's back legs, threatening to topple over toward the empty fireplace. Clint stomped down on the seats of the couch, righting it and sending Natasha flying. He grabbed her out of the air and threw her to the ground, landing all his weight on her and pinning her to the carpet. "Natasha!" he screamed again. A tear fell from his eyes and landed on her cheek below, and another. Tremors shot through his free fist, poised to strike her in the face.

With blood pounding in their ears they barely heard the door crash open.

"You only get one warning," said Director Fury, a pistol trained on the pair.

"What brings you here Director?" Natasha offered weakly.

"What brings me here? What brings me here is my two best agents are fighting like schoolboys and my _guards_" he emphasized out the door, "are too afraid of to deal with it themselves."

"What, why?" said Clint.

"Apparently with you two they can't tell the difference between foreplay and a fistfight."

"And you, Sir?"

"Let's just say I made a lucky guess." said Fury. "Get up, both of you. I will not have Shield's leading field agents acting like children. I don't need either of you injured before your mission even starts."

"I'm not going anywhere with her," said Clint as he wiped a trickle of blood from his lip.

Fury holstered his gun. "Is that so?"

"A partner is someone you trust with your life. All of your life. I don't have one anymore."

"Clint . . ."

"We're done, Agent Romanoff." He stalked past she, grabbing the file as he went. Clint held it to Fury's face. "Even if she wasn't man enough to tell me you should have been."

"It is the strict policy of shield that its agents do not involve themselves romantically with one another."

"But you just said. . ." Clint argued.

"What you do in your spare time is none of my business. What happened in Budapest is none of my business. Until it interferes with your performance."

"So that's it then. You wouldn't tell me without risking your own ass."

"I would much prefer you two on good terms," said Fury. "Shield missions are dangerous enough without my agents at each other's throats."

"That's no longer an option," said Clint as he stalked down the hall.


	2. Poor Girl Part 2

Natasha tiptoed quietly into Clint's room and shut the door behind her. It appeared empty, but she knew better.

"Get out," said his voice from the ceiling. In the dim lighting of his room she could barely make out his figure against the blackness of the sky. A metal ladder led up the wall and out a trapdoor onto the roof of the helicarrier. Wind whistled around and water lapped against the giant ship as it sat docked in a harbor.

Natasha climbed the ladder and sat next to Clint. "Where are we?"

"Rio" he said coldly. "Go."

She stayed where she was, smelling the salty air and admiring the twinkling lights of the city they were calling home tonight. "It was a girl," she said after a while.

"Are you trying to make me feel better?" he spat.

"I'm trying to be honest."

"Maybe you should have tried that in Budapest."

"And said what? Pass me another .20 caliber as we gear up for what could be the largest, and maybe last, fight of our careers, by the way I'm pregnant?"

"That would have worked." He sat still, fixated on the city. Natasha wondered just how much of it he could see from here.

"And then what? There's no way you would have let me leave the safe house."

"Of course not."

"And you'd be dead."

"Yeah."

"So would I. Remember, they bombed the apartment the next morning. You would have bled to death in the street and I would have died in the explosion. Is that really what you'd prefer?

"We lived, and you went and killed her anyway."

"Earlier today you were fine with that."

"Yes, when it was part of a mission! When you had no choice, when the father ended up with his neck snapped. I'm not a mark, Natasha. I'm not the Black Widow's pray. I love you. Or I used to. You had a choice."

"No, I didn't."

"Do you even hear yourself? I've always tried to see behind your mask Natasha, but now I'm not sure there's anything else left."

She took a long breath, trying to steel herself to the only insult he knew she would take to heart. "You've always been a dreamer." She tried to fix his hair but he swatted her away.

"You're despicable."

"Listen to me, Clint. Please don't think it was easy for me."

"You track record shows otherwise. I thought you were the victim. Turns out you're the monster."

"Where would she be?"

"What?"

"Where would that little girl be, right now?"

"With us."

"With us on a heavily armed military vessel that occasionally plummets out of the sky? Where would she have gone during New York? One of these missions is going to get us killed sooner or later. What then? Who would protect her?"

"Natasha."

"Or if someone ever got ahold of her? Clint, she would be a target for every enemy Shield's ever made."

"We could keep her safe."

"No we couldn't! We couldn't protect her from everyone! We couldn't protect her from the world we live in. We can barely keep ourselves from drowning in blood. We couldn't protect her from every single person out to harm her! From our own recklessness. I know what it's like to be ripped from your family. I know what it's like to be a child thrown into that world, taught to kill, taught to hate. I will not let that happen to my daughter!"

"Tasha," Clint said more softly, calming her down. He held his hand to her head and used his thumb to wipe away her streams of tears. She hadn't even notice when she'd started crying.

"Clint, I'm sorry."

He wrapped his arm around her and kissed her head. "Me too."


	3. Punch to the Gut

**A/N: Hi everyone! Thank you so much to everyone who read/reviewed/followed/favorited this story! It means a lot to me that people take the time to read my stuff. I saw that there was some interest in me continuing this story. I had originally intended it end here, and I wasn't really sure how to go forward with it. But then the wheels started turning, and I realized I shouldn't go forward at all, I should go back! Flashback time! The rest of the story is going to be lighter than the first two chapters, but it is ultimately going to lead to the reason behind Natasha's decision. I really hope the whole "What happened in Budapest?" theme isn't too overdone, because that's where this is headed. **

**Sorry for any confusion! All mentions of a ring are about the boxing ring they're sparing in. My bad! Thanks to the reviews who let me know!**

April 19, 2009

"Which brings us to the threat level index. Coulson, report," said Director Fury.

"Yes Sir." He fixed his jacket and rose to stand at the front of the conference room. He toggled the projection controller, calling up the Shield global satellite map. "Our observation units have reported improvement in the situations in Marrakech and São Luis. No significant changes at any of our other red-level observation points. However, our intel suggests a new target here-" he used the remote's trackball to zoom in on Eastern Europe "- in the Hungarian capital."

"What kind of trouble?" asked Agent Hill.

"The _Testvériség a Piros Éjszaka, _or the TPE_._ They're a terrorist organization that began in the 1970's. The group has undergone several power struggles, the last of which, five years ago, put brothers András and István Szabo in charge." He pulled a surveillance photo onto the screen. "Pictured here with their next-in-command, Zoltán Varga. The group has made a name for itself in large-scale weapons trafficking operations, but our sources indicate they've found themselves in the middle of something bigger."

"Something like. . ?" said Fury.

"That's the problem, Sir. We don't know. When this intel first started coming in, we tired to pry our way into their operation, but they clamped down hard. We're getting nowhere."

"Do we have agents on the ground?"

"No, Sir. Ramirez went in yesterday for preliminary reconnoissance and couldn't even get close."

"Very well," said the Director. "Meeting dismissed."

"But Sir," one of the board members began. They still were barely half way through their weekly reports.

"You heard me," he said, and the senior handlers filtered out of the room. "Coulson, Hill, with me."

"Sir?" asked Hill.

"We've all seen situations like this before. It's a tinder box waiting to go up. We need eyes on the ground. We need intel. Get me Barton and Romanoff."

"Is that the best option, Sir? We did have a certain . . . er, deal. . . with them," Hill reminded him.

"Deal's off. I want them in Conference A in twenty minutes."

"Yes, Sir."

Natasha walked into the conference room in sweatpants and a Shield t-shirt, halfway through binding her hand in boxing wraps. She wound the thick yellow cloth around her knuckles and down her wrist. She looked up at the other occupants of the room and paused, letting go of the cloth and feeling it loosen and unravel around her arm.

Clint Barton spun around in his chair.

"We had an agreement, Fury," Natasha said coldly, ignoring Clint's gaze and meeting the Director's.

"Yes, your requested leave. You each independently asked for leave from your partner, for, how did you put it Barton? 'creative differences.'"

"You approved a twelve-month leave," said Clint.

"It's barely been six," said Natasha. "What is he doing here?"

"You little lover's quarrel is officially over."

"We're not lovers."

"No, you're partners. Partners who have to trust each other with their lives, so I suggest you work out your 'creative differences' quickly. You leave for Budapest at 0600 hours."

"Fury you can't do this!" said Clint.

"Coulson will brief you on the mission," said the Director as he strode out of the room.

"Agent Romanoff?" said Coulson, gesturing for her to take a seat. She chose the chair farthest from Barton. Coulson sighed. Sometime Nick Fury had too much faith in people.

He passed out a thick manila folder to each of the agents. "The _Testvériség a Piros Éjszaka_. Loosely translated it means -"

"Brotherhood of the Red Hands," Natasha interrupted.

"Yes, they're a terrorist organization based in Budapest," Coulson explained, giving all the details he had told Fury earlier. "This is a deep cover mission to infiltrate their organization. You have two objectives: learn what they're planning and stop it. You will each be responsible for one of the brothers. Agent Barton, you will replace a guard that András had recently hired from the United States. Agent Romanoff, you will be responsible for István, the younger brother. He runs a gallery in the city that we believe is connected to the organization."

Agent Coulson finished reciting the details of their mission. As soon as he breathed the word "dismissed," they stood and left without a word.

Natasha made her way to the Helicarier's gym, finishing her hand wraps as she walked. She held her ID card to the sensor and the polished metal door swung open with a hydraulic hiss. Empty. Just the way she liked it. She shed her t-shirt for the black racer-back tank top she wore underneath and strode to her favorite heavy bag. Over and over she punched the rough surface, feeling the force of her blows spread up she arms and dissipate through her body. How could Fury do this to her? Especially now - now that she was finally getting over what had happened. She paused, catching the bag and steadying it. Was she lying to herself? Was it even possible to get over. . .

"I though I might find you here," Clint's voice cut through her thoughts.

"Amazing deduction, Sherlock," she said. He strode closer. "What do you want, Barton?" She kicked the bag with all her strength, sending it swinging on its chain. Clint caught it, pulling her target away before she could strike it again. "You want me to kick _you_ instead?"

"I want not to get killed because of this!"

"We're not going to die. Nothing's changed."

"You're distracted. We both are. We're going to make mistakes."

"I don't _get_ distracted Barton," she answered.

"Really? Prove it." He looked over toward the boxing ring in the center of the gym. The tri-colored ropes shown bright in the artificial halogen light.

"Fine." Natasha climbed between the thick ropes of the boxing ring, waiting as Clint quickly wrapped his own hands.

He climbed in opposite her and nodded. "You ready?"

They tapped hands and assumed their fighting stances, fists up in guard. Clint threw a couple of quick jabs, which Natasha easily blocked. She threw back her own punch. Clint caught her harm, pulling her toward him.

"What happened, Natasha?"

She twisted out of his grip, landing a kick to his ribs. "You know damn well what happened." Clint tried to catch her foot, but she was too quick. With his face unguarded, she swung a jab at his cheek. "We got compromised," she said.

Clint dove at her, stopping her block and slipping his muscular arm around her neck. He dragged her to the ground, pinning her to the mat. "Sleeping together doesn't make us compromised."

She wriggled under his grip, fighting to keep his weight from crushing her neck. "Yes Clint," she breathed, "it does." She used her legs to launch him up, flipping over onto his back. She sprang up quickly to her feet. "That's the definition of being compromised. Agents can't be involved. It never ends well."

He followed her up, throwing a quick kick, which Natasha deflected with her forearms before throwing a flurry of jabs and crosses and ramming a knee up into Clint's ribcage.

"You don't get it," he said, swinging an open palm strike at Natasha's ear. She blocked it and jabbed at his chest. He threw a punch, and she ducked, crouching on the floor. With a sweep of her leg she kicked Clint's legs out from under him and he fell to the mat. Clint smiled as she held him down."Natasha, we've been compromised for a very long time."

"That's ridiculous," she said loosening her grip.

"Drop the mask, Natasha. You know it's true. You know we work so well together because we. . . we care about each other. We always have."

"No, Barton," she said coldly. "We don't." She stood up and went to duck out of the ropes. Clint stood up and caught her wrist, spinning her forcefully toward him.

"This is why I couldn't stand being partnered with you!"

"Why?" said Natasha, "Because I'm not delusional?"

"Because I'm tired of you running!" he shouted.

"I'm not running from anything," she hissed, "except maybe the sight of you and Agent Young."

"We went on a few dates. So what?" He paused. "Are you jealous?"

"No Clint, I'm not jealous," she cut back. "I'm mad. You keep saying how much you care about me, how much I mean to you. It's crap. You're lying to yourself, and to me. Just stop. Leave me alone. Let me go."

"Nat, it's not like that."

"It's exactly like that." She wrenched her hand out of his grip and ducked under the ropes of the boxing ring. "I'll see you on the plane."


	4. Rings

**A/N: Sorry for any confusion in the last chapter. All mentions of a ring in Chapter 3 are about the boxing ring they're sparing in. That last line was bad word choice. My bad! Thanks to the reviewers who let me know! I've updated that chapter and I think it's fixed. **

**However, somewhat coincidentally, this chapter actually ****_does_**** involve rings of the jewelry variety, but nobody's engaged and/or married. **

Clint watched her storm out of the gym, yanking her t-shirt off a treadmill arm as she went. He ran his fingers though his damp hair and down his neck. She was so frustrating she made him want to scream, but he settled instead for the punching bag. He hopped out of the ring and headed to the row of heavy bags hanging from their gray steel stands. He chose one and started hitting it, feeling the rough material grating on his knuckles even through the wraps. This was ridiculous. She was being ridiculous. They had always shared a special relationship, since the night they met. Even on their first mission, they had a certain understanding, a way of reading each other that gave them an incredible advantage in the field. And off, since neither one of the pair was particularly keen on sharing their feelings. They weren't just partners. He wasn't sure they had ever been.

What they were, well that was trickier. Clint had never tried to categorize their relationship before. It didn't seem to fit under any label he could think of. It just was. That was fine with him. Why wasn't it okay with her? They spent one night together and she freaked out! They had been binding each other's wounds and silently sharing each other's nightmares for years. Was that really so different?

He kept punching, feeling the skin on his hands splitting beneath the cloth. He didn't care. What was she so afraid of? Commitment? Loosing her job? Blowing a mission? He couldn't take it! So he had gone to Fury and asked for leave from their partnership, knowing she would do the same. Then he had met Agent Young.

"You might need those," a voice interrupted. Coulson strode into the gym, calm as ever in his suit and tie.

"I'm fine," Clint shrugged, and threw another punch.

"How about, as your handler, I'm ordering you to stop." Clint's hands fell away from the bag. He walked over to the were Coulson was waiting. The handler motioned to a nearby bench, and Clint took a seat. As Coulson talked, Clint took off the wraps, wincing as the last layer of cloth peeled away from his raw skin.

"Nice workout, I take it."

"It could have been better."

"And you could have come out with broken knuckles." They sat in silence for a moment. Clint started down at his throbbing red hands. "Fury thinks you're okay to do this mission."

"Fury's usually right."

"But not always. Clint, I know you and Agent Romanoff have a. . .complicated . . .relationship."

"It's actually fairly strait-forward. I save her ass, she saves mine. We patch each other up and get through the day."

"Whatever you believe about it, your lives are remarkably intertwined."

"I know. She doesn't. She ran."

"She may understand more than you think," said Coulson.

Clint stared out at the stillness of the gym, feeling the pulsing pain in his hands. "Maybe you should go tell her that instead."

Coulson winced. He wasn't here to make the problem worse. He tried to change the subject."I hear you're with Agent Young."

Clint shook his head clear, coming back to reality. "Yeah. She's sweet. What about you, Coulson? You had a date a few weeks back."

He smiled. "Last time we were docked in the States. Her name is Grace. She's a cellist."

Barton fell silent.

"Clint, you're angry at Natasha for running from her problems. Make sure you're not doing the same." He rose to leave. "Now get to the infirmary and have your hands looked at before you leave. And no, it's not optional."

Clint stopped by the commissary after his trip to the medical bay. His hands, now wrapped in gauze and medical tape, still stank of antiseptic. He clumsily grabbed a tray, struggling to achieve a full range of motion in his fingers, which wasn't easy considering how heavily the nurse had bandaged them. Clint grabbed plates of food without paying much attention to what what was on them. Finding an empty table, he looked down to see a sandwich, a bowl of soup, and plate of meatloaf and potatoes. Clint shrugged; worked for him. The cold metal chair scrapped against the floor as he pulled it out to sit. The wordless noise of chattering agents filled the large room.

Twenty minute later, Clint had barely touched his food. After his sparing match with Natasha, and the pummeling of the punching bag that had followed, he should be hungry. Knowing what kind of rations Shield would be sending with them to Budapest, he should be _very _hungry. But he couldn't make himself eat. The whole morning kept running through his head: the details of the mission, his fight with Natasha. What really tied a knot in his stomach, though, was what was coming next. He was going to have to say goodbye to Clara. They had only been dating for a few months now, but what was he supposed to say? 'Sorry babe, I'm going on a mission with my partner, who has an uncategorizable relationship with me that I doubt I'll ever share with you or anyone else, and even though I said I didn't see her much anymore, we'll be spending the next three months alone together.' That would go well. Maybe he didn't have to mention Natasha at all.

Clint mustered enough motivation to stand up and bring his still-full tray to the dish return. He was just leaving the commissary when a familiar face swung around the corner.

"We already had our little chat, Coulson," Clint grumbled.

"We did."

"Then why are you here?"

"Because Lee and Stoneford are almost through with mission prep for you."

"Great."

"And apparently there is an item missing from storage."

"That's not my problem."

"Does J6924-A ring a bell?" Coulson asked, reading the item's classification number out of the file in his hand.

"No." Clint tried to step around, but his handler blocked his path. Coulson turned the file over, showing him the picture inside.

"Perhaps you'd recognize it better as these."

Clint stopped. "Oh. Come with me." Agent Coulson followed as Clint wound his way through the helicarrier to the Senior Field Agent's quarters. He selected his door from the long hallway and held up his ID. Inside, his room was almost exactly as Shield had issued it: king bed, nightstand, dresser, desk, table exactly where maintenance had put them, right down to the plain gray comforter on his bed.

"I like what you've done with the place," said Coulson.

"I'm not here much," Clint replied. "And when I am, I'm up there." He nodded to the ladder running up the metal wall of the room. It came out on the deck of the carrier, on a perch away from the bustle of the runways. "It actually gets pretty quiet when we're not in the air," he said as he crossed to the dresser. He opened the top draw and felt around. Reaching far into the back, he shuffled through some folded shirts until his fingers brushed against the soft touch of velvet. He pulled out a tiny black drawstring bag, throwing it at Coulson without a second thought.

Phil smiled. He opened the string and tipped over the bag. Three shimmering rings tumbled into his palm with a soft clank. One held a large diamond. The other two were a matching set of white gold, smaller of which had five tiny diamonds set in the band. All three were scratched and worn from battle.

Clint wasn't looking at his handler. "I'd forgotten I had them. How did you know?"

"You were the last person to sign them into storage, after a mission with Agent Romanoff."

"Not our last mission," he huffed.

"No, just the last one when your covers were married."

"You'll have to be more specific Coulson. We wear those damn things a lot. Hell, Shield issued us a matching set."

Coulson paused. The storage log was only part of the story, but he considered his word choice. "And I know you. It's sweet that you kept them."

"Well you won't have to worry about that anymore."

"You had a reason."

"Yeah," said Clint, "a reason that no longer applies." He marched out of the room without another glance at Coulson, trusting that he'd find his way out.

He'd forgotten about those stupid rings. Then again, he and Natasha weren't supposed to be partners anymore, so why would they have even crossed his mind?

He made his way down the hall, barely watching where he walked. Silently he was kicking himself for taking them in the first place. Why had he? When he signed them back in, why had he slipped them into his pocket instead of putting them away - again? It had become a sort of habit. At least Coulson had saved him the embarrassment of having one of the storage gremlins track him down. Not that this encounter had been much better.

Clint wanted so badly to return to the gym and beat out some more of his frustration, but he was not about to risk another scolding from the infirmary nurse, or worse another lecture from Coulson.

Clint checked his watch. It was just past 1400. He still had plenty of time before the plane left. He might even get a full night's sleep. Clint let out a half-hearted chuckle to himself; that was unusual. Still, he wished it were morning. He wished he could just dive into the mission and leave all this insanity behind him. Not that that was likely, being partnered with Natasha. And he still had to deal with Clara. Better get this over with.

Clint let his feet lead him to the training rooms. His steps echoed through the rounded metallic hallway. He stood there, trying not to let his mind drift as he waited for Clara's hand-to-hand session to finish. One by one, sweaty, exhausted junior agents filed out the door. Clara came near to last, chatting with another woman, a friend she had introduced to Clint once. They had been recruited at around the same time.

"Clint!" she said when she stepped into the hall. She pulled her straight blonde ponytail away from her damp neck and flicked a stray lock of hair away from her sharp face. "I wasn't expecting to see you until tomorrow night."

"Can I talk to you for a second?"

"Uh, sure" she said, and turned to her friend. "I'll catch up with you Anna."

"About tomorrow night, there's been a . . . change of planes. I got pulled for a mission."

"That's ok; we'll reschedule."

He took his head. "It's not that kind of mission, Clara. It's deep cover. I'll be gone a while. Months."

Her face fell. "Clint, I. . . When do you leave?"

"Soon." He gently kissed her lips. "I'm sorry."

He left her there and turned down the hall, wishing that the plane was leaving even sooner. On his way nowhere in particular, Clint's eyes caught on a wide double door at the end of the training deck. _Perfect,_ he thought as stepped onto the rubbery surface of the indoor track. Coulson couldn't chew him out for running laps, and Clint _seriously_ needed to clear his head. He threw his sweats to the side and started out, feeling the tension in his mind release with every pounding step and disappear into the shock absorbers below.

When he couldn't feel his legs anymore, Clint left. Ignoring the chatting agents passing him on their way to the commissary, he made his way back to his quarters. After a short shower, he flopped into bed, disappearing into the darkness until his alarm went off at 0430.


	5. Takeoff

Natasha stood on the bridge, watching the tiny figures of the deck hands bustle around in the predawn light. Except for the hum of computers and the occasional tap of fingers on touch screens, the huge room was quiet. Even when the next crew came to relieve the nightshift, the agents traded stations with only a few murmurs between them. It was perfect: quiet without the eerie silence of the decks below.

Natasha tensed as soft footfalls approached behind her. "Agent Young," she said without turning around. "What a pleasure." The horizon was barely beginning to glow rosy with the impending sunrise.

"Good morning, Agent Romanoff. You're up early. Couldn't sleep much?"

She rarely did, but Natasha wasn't about to offer that or anything else to the other agent. "What do you want, Young?"

"I was actually hoping to find Clint here. Yesterday he. . .I wanted to say goodbye before he left. He has a mission this morning."

"Really?" Natasha replied, not letting her calm face betray an inward smile. He hadn't told Super-spy Barbie who was going with him. Interesting.

"Do you know where I might find him?"

"Knowing Barton, he's still in bed," she said, finally turning around to face Agent Young. "And frankly, Young, I'm surprised you're not there with him."

"Oh." The younger agent winced at the malice and sarcasm dripping from Natasha's voice. "Oh, we had an, um, interesting encounter yesterday. I was hoping to fix things before he left."

She turned to go, and paused.

"Something else?" said Natasha.

"Don't you want to say goodbye too? I know I'm fairly new to Shield, but isn't that how it works? You always wish your friends luck before a mission."

"Clint and I aren't friends. And we said goodbye a long time ago."

"Oh, . . . I'm sorry. Well if you happen to see him, please tell him I'm looking for him."

Natasha nodded in Agent Young's direction, although she was staring past her. The blonde walked away, leaving Natasha to her thoughts.

Was that really true? Was she not friends with Clint anymore? When their relationship had gone too far, she had only intended to real it back in. They couldn't be involved. Clint had to see that. He couldn't be so stupid to think they could work it out. A tiny whisper of fear crept into her mind. How much of their relationship had she broken? Suddenly the sunrise seemed rather dim. Natasha gripped the nearby handrail, feeling a wave of crushing black solitude wash over her. If she truly didn't have Clint anymore, she would be completely. . .

Natasha shuttered, trying to push the thought from her mind. A familiar voice appeared in her ear. _Emotion is weakness, Natalia. It tries to expand outward, exploding around you and causing only harm. You can change that. There is a black hole in your heart. Let it take the pain away; let all you emotion implode within you, never to escape._ She didn't remember how many times this had been said to her, or who had said it: the trainers, the handlers, the bosses, the walls, the insignia, the color. At this point it felt like the very idea of the Red Room itself whispering was to her mind.

It was a reflex. She didn't always decide when it happened, or why, but it happened when she was frightened. Or hurt.

"Agent Romanoff," Hill's voice cracked the silence. The stern brunette stood stiffly by the door. "Call is in ten minutes."

Natasha nodded. She joined Agent Hill and they traversed the Helicarrier's passages, making their way to the flight deck.

"Fury is making a mistake," said Hill.

Natasha smiled. "I haven't heard you say that in almost a week, Maria. I thought something was wrong."

"I'm serious."

"You always are."

"I know you and Agent Barton have your problems."

"We haven't exactly been hiding it lately."

"Which is fine. Preferred, actually. Shield likes to know the state of all agents' personal relationships so we know who runs the highest risk of letting their emotions ruin a mission."

"And Clint and I . . ?"

"Are red-flagged. Two highly complex computer algorithms say the two of you shouldn't be put together. Not to mention common sense. The two of you are barely speaking. After you little chat yesterday, Barton punched a heavy bag so hard he got himself sent to Medical."

He did? "Is he alright?" Natasha asked. Behind her mask, her face fell. She hadn't meant to make him that upset.

"He's fine," Maria said with a hough. "He probably didn't even need to go, but Coulson can be a little overprotective."

Natasha let out a half-hearted laugh. He certainly could.

"But Fury thinks he knows better," Hill continued. "It's reckless and dangerous to put the two of you together, especially on a mission like this: close quarters, no contact with us until you're ready to take the TPE down. It's going to blow up in your faces. In all of our faces."

"Is there a reason you're telling me this, Maria?" Natasha asked, not thrilled with Agent Hill's pep talk.

"Because you're smart and level-headed. You know not to let emotion get in your way. Keep Barton in check, and maybe this mission won't go up in flames."

"Yes, Ma'am," said Natasha as they reached the flight deck. Wind whipped around them as the Helicarrier sped along, swallowing all but the nearest conversations in white noise. Mechanics bustled around tending to the fighter jets and helicopters lined up on the grated steel surface. At the start of the launch runway, a flight crew was prepping their jet for takeoff.

"And Agent Romanoff," Hill said loudly over the wind as the reached the jet, "good luck."

Natasha nodded and climbed aboard.

"Sir," she greeted Director Fury, who stood waiting in the empty back of the plane.

"Barton, you're late," said Fury when Clint scrambled onto the plane a full twenty minutes after call time.

"Sorry Sir."

"May I ask what was so important?"

Natasha flashed Clint a smug smile. "I bet I know. Lipstick suits you, Barton," she said, reaching out to tousle his disheveled hair. "I take it Agent Young found you."

Clint cleared his throat. He opened his mouth to reply when Fury stopped him.

"Enough," he said sternly. "Here."

Clint and Natasha each took the thick manila file he handed them.

"Here are your covers, information, birth certificates, passports, visas, drivers licenses, everything detail you could want to know about your new lives. And Agent Romanoff, you may find these helpful." He handed her with several large volumes with titles like _A Brief History of Art from 1450-1900_, and _Modern Art: A Curator's Guide to the Rare Art Market._ They didn't look brief at all.

Clint snickered. "Have fun with that."

"At least I'm not a mindless thug," she said, recalling yesterday's briefing.

"People," said Fury, "now is not the time. You land in Budapest in six hours. You will be dropped at Ferenc Liszt International Airport, where Agent Parker is situated to assimilate you into the crowd. Tickets and boarding passes for you flight are included in your documents. You will retrieve the luggage we've sent ahead on the plane and proceed to the safe house. Your other belongings will arrive in three days."

"Three?" Clint whined.

"We have to blend in, Barton," Natasha reminded him.

He rolled his eyes. Why did she always have to do that?

"After you leave the airport, you will only have emergency communication with Shield via a secure satellite link. Good luck."

With a nod in their direction, Fury turned and departed down the plane ramp, his coat snapping in a sharp gust of wind.

Part of each of them wanted to follow the Director off the plane and disappear in the labyrinth of the Helicarrier, pretending this mission wasn't going to happen. Instead, they took their seats along the cargo-net-covered sides of the plane and strapped themselves in for takeoff. Launching off an aircraft carrier was far more intense than a traditional runway, but Clint and Natasha had come and gone from the Helicarrier, as pilots and passengers, so many times that they knew how to handle the g-force. When the pilot gave them the thumbs up, they tucked their chins and braced for the wall of force about to hit them.

The turbines whirred to life and the plane started rolling, gathering speed as it raced across the deck. With a final push of the engines, the jet shot off the end of the carrier, arcing up into the pearly gray sky. When the aircraft leveled off at 40,000 feet, Natasha released her grip on the safety harness and let her muscles relax.

"Still hate takeoffs, huh?" said Clint.

"I'm a little wary," she frowned, "and you know why."

"That was an excellent emergency takeoff. The wheels lifted up right before the runway blew."

"Believe me, I remember," she said, recalling the feeling of the shockwaves that had ripped the air from her lungs and thrown her and five other agents into the cold aluminum walls of their jet. One still hadn't made a full recovery from his concussion.

She rose from the stiff plastic seat and settled more comfortably on the ribbed metal floor, laying the file and stack of books out in front of her. "Let's focus, shall we?"

"Fine then," said Clint, joining her. He read from his file. "Sebastian Griggs. Raised in Vermont by a single mother. Fell into some trouble after she died and landed myself in Detroit. I climbed my way up the ladder of Mark "the snake" Espinosa's weapons trafficking ring, but when he died, I could see a bloody power struggle coming, and I made sure I would be well out of dodge. A buyer put me in touch with András Szabo, and here I am on my way to Hungary, with my lovely fiancé."

"Charlotte Welsh grew up on Long Island," said Natasha. "Her parents, a lawyer and public school teacher, took her to Europe over many summers in her youth, peaking her interest in art and art history. She went on to pursue art history as an undergraduate at Williams College, and recently received her masters degree from Colombia. While of a trip to the Art Institute of Chicago for a display opening, she crossed paths with Sebastian Griggs. The two have been dating for three years. Griggs proposed last March. Having recently secured a new job at a corporation in Hungary, the couple is now moving to Budapest," Natasha skimmed from her file.

"An interesting pair," said Clint.

"I wonder what she sees in him."

"Excuse me?"

"She's clearly a cultured woman. What is she doing with a thug like Griggs?"

"Something tells me Charlotte Welsh isn't so innocent herself," Clint spat back.

"I wasn't talking about us."

"Really, because that sounded pretty familiar. It makes me wonder what I ever saw in _you_."

Natasha grew quiet. "Yourself, I'm guessing," she said after a pause. "Clint, I've never thought of myself as better than you. Except maybe in sparring."

"That remains to be seen," he said more lightly.

"Anyway, if. . ." she began, but stopped herself. She would never be as good a person as he was. She would never be so noble or kind, or just plain decent, but she couldn't bring herself to say those words. Instead her picked up her file, looking wistfully at Charlotte Welsh's fictional life. "I think I would have enjoyed art history."

"Well now's your chance," said Clint, patting cover of the nearest art book. "You've got a lot to learn in the next five and a half hours."

Natasha grabbed a book from the stack and started reading.


	6. Madame X

**A/N: Sorry it's been so long! Thank you for your feedback. Several reviewers said that Clint and Natasha have been fighting for too long. Sorry! It's easy to get carried away with things like that so please review and let me know what I can do better. I had a little trouble getting started with this chapter, but I'm pretty happy with how it turned out. **

**If the art thing doesn't click with you, please stick with it, it's really short. Also, if you're interested, try google-imaging the paintings Natasha's looking at. Disclaimer: That said, I have basically no knowledge of art history or criticism and I found them all with google and wikipedia. Enjoy!**

Natasha looked up from her book, pinching the bridge of her nose. Over the past several hours, three of the thick volumes Fury had given her had migrated into the 'finished' pile, and she was halfway through the fourth.

"So, Agent Young," she said.

"Don't you have reading to do?"

"I think I deserve a break."

"But what you want is an explanation."

"Maybe."

"I don't have to justify myself to you, Natasha."

"You didn't tell Young I was your partner on this mission. Why?"

"Her name is Clara, and it never came up."

"That's not true."

"I didn't think she would believe me if I told her there was nothing between us."

"Do you blame her? After all," Natasha chided, "it's a lie."

"I could have told her that I was over you."

"That's a lie too."

"Someone thinks a little highly of herself today," Clint chuckled. It was nice to see Natasha smile, even if it was at his expense.

"Oh really, then why do you have a rebound girl?"

"Clara's not a rebound girl!"

"Yes, and you like miss hot-young-and-blonde for her personality."

Clint paused, considering his next words carefully. "That's why I like you." He had meant it to come out in a playful way, bet his voice grew soft as he spoke.

"I'd better get back to this if I'm going to finish before we land," she said, holding up _Art Movements of the Nineteenth Century._ "I think I'll go sit in the cockpit."

He nodded and she stood up, stretching to relieve the tension in her limbs that came from sitting on the hard steel floor. Clint was turning back to his own file when he spied the little black pouch hooked between the page. "Tasha, wait," he called.

She turned back to him, hiding a smile. "Yes?"

She waited for him to speak, but he didn't. He was studying her face. "What?" he asked, unable to place her expression.

"Nothing," she lied. She hadn't heard that nickname in a long time.

"Here," said Clint. He decided not to push the subject. "This must have been put in my things by accident. Only you need it." He took the little pouch and tossed it to her. Natasha plucked it from the air with ease.

"Coulson must have made a mistake," she said. They exchanged a knowing glance before Natasha turned toward the cockpit. Neither one had to say a word to know they were sharing the same thought: Coulson didn't make that kind of mistake.

As he watched her go, Clint wanted to throw his head back and laugh. He could just picture Coulson's smug face as he tucked the rings carefully into Clint's file, hoping the exchange would force a conversation. Whatever mysterious task he was performing on the helicarrier right now, Clint was sure this moment was in the back of Coulson's mind. He would be wondering all day exactly how his little setup had payed off. He was a sneaky one, forcing them to talk, and hopefully confront . . . things. Maybe Coulson would have wanted a bit more in terms of conversation, but Clint smiled. It had gone rather well.

Up in the cockpit, Natasha nodded to Agent Patterson and took a seat in the copilot's chair. She let her back sink in to the padded fabric and felt her muscles uncoil. The ocean glittered below as the jet sped along.

Natasha returned to her book. Her eyes skimmed over the words without processing them. Her mind was elsewhere. After she reset the paragraph for the fifth time, she gave up. Flipping randomly through the glossy pages, she let her mind wander through the paintings.

Her eyes caught first on Sargent's _Carnation Lily, Lily Rose_, the white gowned girls lighting lanterns with an innocence Natasha had never known. Wishing to forget what she had never had, she moved on, and found herself instead stuck on something she had lost. As the thick pages flowed by under her fingertips, a splash of muted color and a familiar pose caught her attention. Flipping back a page, she found Degas' ballerinas stretching out at their barre. How long it had been since she had danced that way.

Before she could be dragged too far into her past, Natasha willed herself to turn the page. Passing seascapes and water lilies, she found herself looking at Klimt's gold-leafed renditions of things she would never have.

It was truly fascinating how a life, even one as mangled and twisted as hers, could be reflected in all of these paintings like a hall of mirrors. This must be what fascinated Charlotte Welch so much. Then again, Miss Welch probably saw a much prettier picture.

Done with her little venture into the paintings, Natasha flipped back to where she had begun, prepared to dive back into the text. She stopped though, looking back at another Sargent painting. In this particular shard of glass, Natasha saw not what she had never had, or what she had lost, or what she would never find, she saw what she was. Staring back at her was a pale beauty in a long black dress. A powerful woman with her strength and beauty on display, yet hiding at the same time. _Madame X_, she was called, Natasha noted from the cation beneath the image. Natasha wanted to look away, but something held her to the painting. Wasn't this her? A woman with a thousand names, constantly on display and. . . Natasha studied the woman's face, turned away even as the tight bodice of her evening gown faced the viewer, as if she was wondering if there was something more than this. As if she was hiding.

Natasha slammed the hardcover volume closed with a sharp clap. It was time for a different book.

"That was fast," said Clint as Natasha rose out of the copilot's chair. "Not even you read that quickly."

"This one wasn't very helpful," she said tossing it back on the floor and picking up _Rebirth: Art of the Early and High Renaissance._

The plane's intercom system came to life with a ding. "ETA to Budapest Ferenc Liszt International Airport: 45 minutes," said Agent Patterson.

"Looks like library time is over," Clint said. They spent the remainder of the flight reviewing last minute details, and changing into their civilian clothes.

"Ready?" Clint said as he pulled on a blue stripped dress shirt. Natasha smoothed her pencil skirt and came over.

"Always," she said, buttoning the last few buttons and straightening Clint's collar.

They grabbed the two bags that would be posing as their carry-on luggage. Natasha slipped the engagement ring on her finger just before they touched down on the runway.

"Thanks for the lift Patterson," said Clint as the bay door lowered onto the runway.

"After that flight over Sarajevo? Any time," said the pilot. "Here's Parker. Good luck."

A man in the orange safety vest and headphones of a runway worker approached the plane in a motorized baggage cart.

"Mr. Griggs, Miss Welch," said the man.

"Good to see you Parker," said Clint.

"The flight you two are supposedly on landed twenty minutes ago. Hop on."

Clint and Natasha climbed into the the back cart. It rumbled over the concrete as they sped toward the commercial terminal of the airport. They wound through the massive white commercial jets parked on the runway. Behind them, another plane took off in a whirr of spinning turbans. Agent Parker stopped the cart beside the gleaming airport building. They waited patiently as the commercial jet spun slowly into position beside the boarding terminal.

"Flight 226 to Budapest from JFK International Airport," said Agent Parker. "I hope you two enjoyed it."

"The mechanics went alright?" Clint asked.

"See for yourself."

The corrugated metal boarding passage began to stretch toward the plane.

"Parker. . ?" said Clint hesitantly. The other agent smirked.

With the screech of grating metal, the walkway jolted to a halt.

The radio clipped to Agent Parker's belt crackled to life.

"_What's happening?"_ a harsh voice growled in Hungarian.

"_The walkway still isn't responding,"_ replied a technician in the control booth.

_"Try again!" _

The two hydraulic arms pulled at the metal passageway. The ear-grating shriek of metal cut through the hum of the tarmac.

"_The controls are not responding,"_ the technician crackled over the radio.

"_I though you fixed it!"_ barked a third voice.

"_So did we. It's been malfunctioning all morning."_

_"Well fix it _now!_" _The third voice paused, then continued, "_Get me the manual ramp. We need these people off the plane."_

"Nice work, Parker," said Clint. "I hope you didn't do too much damage."

"Nah, they'll have it running by tomorrow morning. But in the meantime, here's your window."

A crew in bright reflective vests hustled into view, wheeling a tall metal staircase between them. Positioning it before the plane's door, they locked the wheels in place.

Agent Parker turned the keys, and the baggage cart's engine whirred back to life. Clint and Natasha ducked as he circled the plane, the tail of empty luggage bins trailing behind them.

"You're clear," said Agent Parker.

Clint and Natasha hopped quickly from the cart. Parker killed the engine and followed behind them as workers began loading luggage into the bins.

"No passengers near the luggage!" he barked loudly enough for the nearest departing passengers to hear him.

"But we're right here!" Natasha whined. "I can see my suitcase; it's right there."

"No! You get your bags inside with everyone else." As he spoke, Parker drove the couple toward the stream of passengers.

An airport official in with a stern face approached them. "Is there a problem here?"

"Yes, yes there is," said Natasha, sticking her chin out for emphasis. "I can see my luggage sitting in that cart, and your employee won't let me fetch it."

"I apologize for the inconvenience, ma'am, but all luggage must be catalogued before being returned to passengers. You may retrieve your things on the baggage claim inside our facility."

"This is ridiculous," she protested.

"If you would kindly join your fellow travelers. . ." he said with a lavish gesture of his hand.

"Come on, baby. Let it go," said Clint, gently coaxing Natasha toward the line of people.

"Fine."

"_Americans,"_ the official groaned behind them.

Arm in arm, Clint and Natasha followed the stream of people into the airport. The gleaming white building bustled with travelers. Some sat exhausted on the long benches, trying to entertain themselves as they awaited departure. Others hustled through the crowd, their luggage rolling behind them as they raced toward their flight. The smells cleaning products and fast food mixed in the air. A woman's mechanical voice read out monotone boarding calls and flight numbers over the loudspeaker.

"So that's the kind of couple we are, huh, Charlotte?"said Clint as waited by the baggage claim.

"For now," Natasha teased. "At least we caught their attention."

Clint shook his head. "That man won't forget _you_ any time soon. And I'm sure he and several spectators would happily confirm our attendance on the plane, or at least, or departure from it." Shield would cover the rest.

They retrieved the suitcases they had memorized from the mission filed and made their way to the exit.

"How was the flight dear?" Clint asked as they walked, rolling suitcases rumbling behind them.

"I must admit it was much better than I had anticipated."

"Expecting more turbulence?"

"Subtle," she quipped.

They were just passing the line of liveried drivers hailing their clients by the doors when they hesitated. A familiar face held up a white paper sign with the name GRIGGS scrawled across it. Agent Parker's face looked sweaty and nervous beneath his black chauffeur's cap.

"I didn't know you'd arranged this!" said Natasha, purposely perking up her voice.

"I though it would be a nice surprise," Clint lied.

"You must be Mr. Griggs," said Agent Parker as they approached.

"Yes, Sir."

"Come with me."

They followed Parker outside to the long driveway that curled into the airport. He stowed their luggage in a black town car, and held the door for the couple before sliding into the driver's seat himself.

"What's happened?" Natasha asked calmly after the doors were shut.

Agent Parker adjusted his rear-view mirror, looking at her in the reflection. "The real Sebastian Grigs."

"He isn't due to arrive until tomorrow."

"It looks he was more spooked than we originally thought. He bumped up his flight from the States up to this morning."

"When will he land?" asked Clint.

"Half an hour ago."


	7. Griggs

"Chauffeur, will you fetch my purse from the trunk?" Natasha asked. Parker left to retrieve it.

"How do you want to handle this?" said Clint. "We won't have time to set up the ambush."

Agent Parker returned with Charlotte Welch's green silk purse. Natasha dug through it, pulling out a lipstick container and a small mirror.

"I have an idea," Natasha teased, applying the wine-red color to her lips. "He hasn't left the airport?" She tousled her hair and undid the first few buttons of her blouse.

"No. Cameras last spotted him at the airport bar."

"Perfect."

"Where should we meet?" Clint asked.

"I'll let you know." Natasha slung the purse over her shoulder and opened the car door.

"Wait," said Clint, taking her hand. Natasha studied the furrows of his face. He carefully slid the engagement ring off of her finger. "You might have better luck without this."

"Thanks," she said, and climbed out of the car.

Natasha headed back into the airport with a slow, sultry gait. Sebastian Griggs sat alone at the airport bar staring into a near-empty beer bottle. Natasha rolled her neck, stretching out. She took a deep breath, pushing herself to the back of her mind and becoming someone else.

Griggs had had a rough day, and was likely exhausted from his flight. Come on too strong, and he could shut down. On the other hand, he was gruff guy, who would probably only respond with a little push.

Natasha dug the cell phone out of her purse. Bringing the screen to life, she held it to her ear, talking into it with no one on the other end.

"No Johnny. I don't care what Byron wants," she said as she approached the bar. "Why does it matter who gets the business?"

She slumped down a few bar stools away from Griggs. "Just, just hold on a second." Natasha covered the phone's speaker as she placed her order to the bar tender. "Stop it. Sometimes I feel like winning your daddy's business is more important to you than I am." She let her brow furrow, allowing time for her new boyfriend to reply. "Unless you start putting me first, Johnny, we're over!"

Natasha ended the call with an unnecessarily hard tap of her finger and threw the phone back into the purse. "Do you ever feel like you're caught in the middle of a feud?" she said, turning casually to Griggs. The strong jawed man looked up as the bartender placed a martini glass in front of Natasha. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to throw all my problems on you." She paused, taking a sip of the drink. "It's just. . . my boyfriend and his brother are fighting over who gets their father's business. It's stupid really. They're too blind to see whose getting hurt." Natasha turned back to her glass. "Really, I'm sorry. I'll leave you alone now."

She waited, counting down the seconds in her head. _5 . . . 4 . . . 3 . . . 2 . . ._ Like clockwork, Griggs responded. Honestly, she was a little disappointed - a hardened thug and he wasn't even going to make this interesting. Oh well, at least she'd get it over with.

"No, that's alright," said Griggs in a low, gruff voice. "Actually, I think I get what you're taking about."

"Family trouble too?" Natasha asked.

"You could say that," Griggs explained. "My boss, he was like family to me. I've been working for his for years. He died recently."

"I'm so sorry. That's awful."

"Anyway, his sons are fighting over the business. I'm afraid it's going to get ugly. That's actually why I'm here."

"Really?" said Natasha, scooting into the chair beside him.

"Yeah, I got a new opportunity here in Budapest. It looks real promising."

"That's incredible. Congratulations."

"What about you, honey? Things looking up for you?" he asked.

"Actually, I don't know. My boyfriend and I, we've been going through a rough patch lately. It's . . . complicated. He met another girl and -" Natasha explained. She hadn't intended to use quite this much of her real life, but she shrugged it off. The easiest lies to tell were those grounded in truth. What scared her was at this point was that she was barely lying at all.

"He cheated on you?" said Griggs, sitting up a little in his chair. He was getting defensive of her. Excellent.

"Not technically, not yet. But I'm not sure how much longer we can last."

With a flick of his wrist, Griggs hailed the bartender. "Honey, you've had a rougher day than I have. Next round's on me."

And so the conversation went on, both participants spinning stories rooted in truth and covered in lies. They laughed, they chuckled, they shared their only partially false woes. As the drinks kept coming, Natasha employed her favorite parlor trick. This particular slight of hand allowed her to slowly drain her glass without drinking much alcohol. It had saved her life several times, where a drunken fog would have slowed her reaction time, which was usually the key to a fight.

"It's getting late," said Natasha, checking her watch. "I'd better get going to the hotel. Unless. . ." She paused, waiting for Griggs to look up at her.

"What?"

"No, it's silly." Natasha tucked a strand of rusty hair behind her ear.

"Really, what is it Dollface?" said Griggs. His words were slurred. Progress.

"Would you like to come with me?"

"That doesn't sound silly at all."

Griggs threw some money on the counter, fumbling up beside Natasha and taking her arm. Outside they hailed a taxi and hopped in.

"Where too Ma'am?" asked the driver.

Natasha fumbled through her purse. "Oh no. I can't seem to find the address. I'm pretty sure it's northwest of here though, by the river."

The cabbie started the car and headed out of the airport driveway and towards the downtown area. As Griggs stared out the window, Natasha took the opportunity to quickly make a hotel reservation on her phone, sending the receipt along to Clint.

"Here we go," she said, reading the cabbie the address.

They pulled up to a decent-looking building a few blocks from the Danube river, which cuts through the center of the city. They stumbled through the glass front doors and checked in at the front desk. Dragging their meager luggage along, they swiped into the room and flicked on the lights.

Natasha went to the window and threw the curtain open, scanning the black rooftops for someone she knew she'd never be able to see.

"I think you're going to want those closed," Griggs chuckled. _So are you_, Natasha thought, and dragged them closed again with the swish of heavy fabric. She was carefully to leave a small opening between the curtains, just in case.

"How about a bottle of wine," Natasha suggested, picking up the room service menu from the night stand. "Do you like Pinot Noir?" she asked, with the tiny drug capsules in hidden in her purse, and not the type of wine, on her mind

"How about we get right to the fun part." Griggs grabbed her arms and pulled her in for a kiss. At least things were getting interesting.

"Tell me about your new job," Natasha giggled as they toppled onto the bed.

"That's what you want to talk about now?" said the thug as he worked on the buttons of her blouse.

Natasha pulled a small handgun from the holster concealed on her thigh. The click of the safety releasing made Griggs freeze as she pressed it into his stomach. "Yes, yes it really is."

"I won't tell you anything," he said gruffly.

"Baby, you've already given my everything I need. Except your ID code."

"That's not true!" He struggled and she dug the gun further into his ribs.

"You're meeting András Szabo Thursday morning, around, how did your put it? 'Too early for beer and too late for breakfast.' So 1030 or 1100? You said it's the nicest clandestine meeting spot you've ever been to, which means it's by the river. Szabo's in the shipping business, so it's a pier in the shipping district." Natasha watched his eyes widen with each new detail.

"How. . ? How did you . . ?"

She gave his a playful pat on the cheek. "You told me. You let slip every detail. Now, your mutual contact has already vouched for you, but you are to present a nine digit PIN number to Szabo to prove your identity. Where is it?"

Griggs pursed his lips and spat at her. Natasha raised her hand and slapped him. With her hand in the air, Griggs hooked his leg over hers, pulling her off balance and flipping her over. The gun fell out of her hand and skidded off the bed. The muscular henchmen held her down, pinning her to the bed and leaning his forearm into her throat. Natasha tucked her chin to keep him from choking her out.

Rotating onto her hips, Natasha wriggled out of his grip. She swung her legs up to his neck, catching his shoulder between her thighs. In one swift motion she wrenched his arm and tumbled with him onto the burgundy carped. Still immobilizing him with the shoulder lock, she dug a knee into his spine before hauling him up and slamming him into the wall. Griggs crumpled to the floor with a soft thud. Natasha glanced at the crack in the blinds.

When Clint arrived barely two minutes later, Natasha opened the door to let him in.

"Looks like I missed quite a party," he said, surveying the rumpled sheets.

Natasha sighed. "For a muscle-for-hire, he really isn't very skilled. You might actually be doing Szabo a favor by replacing him."

Natasha dragged the wooden desk chair into the open space at the foot of the bed. Clint hoisted Sebastian Griggs' crumpled form over his shoulder and dropped him in the chair.

"Do you have everything I need to take his place?" Clint asked. Plastic zip-ties buzzed as they bound his hand together behind him, and his ankles to the chair.

"Everything but a PIN number."

"Think he was sloppy enough to right it down?" Clint grabbed Sebastian's bag where he'd dropped it and shook its contents out on the bed.

"Let's hope. I'd hate for this to get too messy."

"Digital or old school?" Clint said, holding up a cell phone.

Natasha snatched in from him and started working her way through its contents. Clint searched though the items on the bed. After several wrinkled changes of clothes and some protein bar wrappers, he hadn't found anything useful.

"It's a burner," said Natasha. "He was probably planning to get a new one here."

"Or he hoped Szabo would give him one."

"Anything on your end?" Natasha asked.

"Nope," said Clint, feeling around the inside of the duffle for anything he'd missed. "Wait." He flipped the bag inside out.

Sewn into a seem was a little scrap of cloth, nearly identical to the blue shade of the bag, but not a perfect match. Clint pulled a small knife from his boot and cut it free. It had the number 928709561 scrawled on it in scraggly black pen.

"What do you know," said Clint.

Griggs moaned as he started to come to. "Hey! Hey what are you doing with my stuff?" He wriggled against the bindings. "And who are you?" he added, glaring at Clint. He looked them both over, the slender red-head who'd taken him out and her muscular companion. "Who the hell are you people?"

"That's really none of you business," said Natasha. "Is this the PIN number?"

"No," said Griggs.

Clint watched for the tiniest twitch in his face. "He's lying."

"Thank you for your cooperation." Natasha walked closer to him, trailing her finger under his chin and circling around to stand behind him.

"Hey, wait! What are you -"

His head flopped forward.

Clint and Natasha walked out of the hotel in silence. The could both hear Fury's briefing in their ears: "Once a clean-up crew retrieves Griggs' body, you two are completely alone."


	8. Maybe

The taxi pulled over on a quiet residential street. "Here you go. 23 Talán street," said the cabbie. Clint and Natasha paid the fare and climbed out. The car puttered away behind them as they rolled their luggage onto the side walk.

"Once again, Fury has spared no expense," said Clint as they surveyed the peeling paint, rusted handrails and chipped concrete stoop of their new residence. Immediately, though, they could tell why the Shield scouts had chosen this place. A quiet residential neighborhood made it easier to keep tabs on neighbors and spot anything out of the ordinary, even before they were used to the place. At five stories, this particular building and its neighbor were the tallest in a two block radius. Across the alley, the neighboring building formed a windowless concrete barrier shielding Clint and Natasha's new apartment from attack. It world be virtually impossible for a sniper to target them here, while still affording Clint aim at the street below.

"Shall we?" said Natasha. They climbed the five steps up into the building. The cramped lobby area smelled of must, and the cranberry rug was worn almost through to the floorboards beneath. A steep staircase wound around the elevator shaft. Natasha pushed the up button and the open cage elevator rattled into view. The folding mesh door creaked as they pulled it open and stepped inside. They were sliding the door closed again when a voice called out "_Hold the door!"_

Two older gentlemen hustled toward the elevator, clinging tightly to the brown paper bags they were holding. They pressed tightly into the small metal box.

"_You must be new," _said the man with a bald spot on his head and a chin full of white stubble. He shifted his bag with the clink of glass and held out a hand to Clint and Natasha. "_I'm Boris Bognár. My wife and I live in 4B. This here's Lornic."_

_"It's nice to meet you,"_ said Natasha as best she could. "_I apologize; my Hungarian is still a bit shaky. I'm Charlotte and this is my fiancé Sebastian. We just moved into 5C."_

_"You English?"_

_"American, actually."_

_"Well it's a pleasure to meet you both. Say, we're just getting ready for poker night with some of the fellas. You're welcome to join us."_

_"Thanks you," _said Natasha, "_but we have some unpacking to do. Maybe another time."_

The elevator dinged and came to a stop on the fourth floor. Boris and Lornic scooted out of the elevator. "_You're late_!" a plump woman shouted at them from the doorway of 4B. They hobbled down the hallway as the elevator rattled away.

"Who was that?" asked the woman as she snatched the grocery bags from Boris and Lornic. "And for god's sake Boris, put on a clean shirt. We have guests coming."

"Aren't I a guest?" said Lornic.

"You don't count. You practically live here. Well?"

"They're an American couple who just moved in upstairs," said Boris.

"Married?"

"Engaged. What's it to you Marika?"

"Just curious," said the woman as she put the bags down on the counter.

"They won't stay together long," said Lornic.

"What makes you think that? asked Boris.

"There's something stiff about them. Like they don't want to be around each other. I say they split up within a month."

"That's ridiculous."

"Twenty bucks says I'm right."

"Fine," said Boris, and they shook on it.

"I just hope its the pouty little redhead that goes," said Marika. "This building could use a man like Mr. Muscle."

"Home sweet home," said Clint as they entered their new apartment.

Natasha placed Charlotte's purse on the kitchen table and looked around. The whole place was, for the most part, one room. They had entered on the kitchen side. A worn counter area with a small gas stove and dented cabinets sat behind the table. Down a step, a tattered couch sat on the floorboards and an area rug did its best to cover up the scratches on the floor. An empty bookshelf slumped against the peeling olive wallpaper and beside it, a door led back to the bedroom.

"We've had better," said Natasha.

"We've had worse."

"The windows are a nice change," Natasha agreed, "even if they are looking out at solid concrete."

They split up and explored where they would be living for the next three months. Clint examined the kitchen, opening the oven's squeaky door and running the tap water. Natasha sat on the couch, then headed over to the windows.

"You'll enjoy this," she called to Clint. She unlocked the farthest window and pushed it open, then stepped out onto the fire escape. Clint came to join her. Natasha rested her elbows on the rusty railing as looked down at the alley below. "Not the best view, I know."

"Maybe not," said Clint. "Here." He took Natasha by the shoulders and pointed her toward the street. "From here you can see the street we live on."

"Great."

"And judging by the angle and direction of this building, if you stand right here . . ." He walked her to the back end of the balcony and tucked her far into the corner of the railing. "You should have a decent view of the city."

"Wow," she said. He was right. Past the end of their concrete neighbor, you could see toward the river. They were far enough from the center of the city that their view wasn't blocked by the taller buildings they were looking at. "What do you see out there Clint?"

"What? I see what you see."

"That's not true. I see an alley and a hideous concrete wall. You see the city. How?"

Clint paused. "You've never asked me that before. No one has. I'm not sure how to explain it." He leaned over beside her, studying the city in the distance. "I see angles and degrees. I see all the shots I could take. But it's more than that I think. I see they whole city like I'm above it."

Natasha chuckled. "Like a hawk?"

Clint shook his head. "I guess I'm not describing it well. I'll find a better way to explain it to you."

His hands were still resting on Natasha's shoulders. She brushed them off and climbed back through the window. "We have some unpacking to do."

The moving truck came and went and within the week all their things were put away. The pots and pans were stowed in the kitchen cabinets; all their clothes were folded away in their dressers. Their weapons were carefully hidden beneath the floorboards, behind the sheetrock and around the apartment. A punching bag hung from its aluminum stand against the olive wall. Beside it, Natasha had alphabetized Charlotte's books on the bookshelf. From a box labeled _home touches_ they had pulled out fake photographs of Sebastian and Charlotte and scattered them around the place. Natasha was putting away _Art Deco: Artistic Expression in the 1920s,_ when she stopped and picked up one of the frames.

"Remember our trip to Machu Picchu?" said Clint as he walked in the door.

"Someone spent a lot of time on photoshop making these pictures, but you and I have actually been to all of these places."

"Somehow I think Charlotte Welch would prefer these over the only photo actually taken on that trip, which was of a drug lord hanging by his neck from a tree."

"Fair enough," Natasha said. "How was the meeting with András?"

"Excellent. As far as he knows, I'm the real Sebastian Griggs."

"Any hints yet about what they're involved in?"

"Not yet, but it will take time before he trusts me." Clint placed a grocery bag on the counter and began emptying it out. "Any luck with István?"

"I've been tailing him for the past three days. My best bet to make contact is a coffee shop he frequents. I have enough intel, so I'll make my move tomorrow."

After dinner, Natasha stood out on the fire escape, the wrought iron biting her ribs as leaned over to look at the city lights beginning to come to life under the dark evening sky. She heard the scrape of the window behind her, but didn't turn around.

"You alright Charlotte?" said Clint.

"I'm fine. Just adjusting to a new city," she replied. "And the neighbors don't speak English so you don't have to stay in character out here."

"Who said I was? Staring off into the mist is usually my job. Are you doing okay?"

"Of course," said Natasha. Clint stood there silently until she continued. She held up one of the doctored photographs of Charlotte and Sebastian. "I hear that in the real world, it takes longer than four days to move. Instead of one little box of fake photographs, people have truckloads of photo albums and trinkets. Apparently keepsakes don't usually come with index cards to memorize explaining where they came from."

"These deep cover missions always rattle me too. Why is that?"

"Because they are just real enough to remind us it's all fake." She fiddled anxiously with ring on her finger. "We forfeited this kind of life a long time ago, and that's fine. I just wish these missions didn't have to spit it back in our faces."

"I've got to say, I've missed this," said Clint.

"Missed what?"

He smiled and took her hand. "It doesn't all have to be fake Natasha."

"Of course it does. That's the point. It just another lie."

"The easiest lies to tell are the ones rooted in truth." Clint intertwined their fingers and pulled her in for a kiss.


	9. Fuse

Natasha's eyes snapped open and she pushed Clint away. This could not be happening. "Get out," she said.

"I live here."

"What were you thinking?"

He climbed back through the window and went to stalk off into the bedroom. A few steps in, he paused and turned on his heel. "No, Natasha, I'm done with this. I'm done walking away."

She climbed back into the apartment and brushed past him. "Then I will."

Clint grabbed her shoulder. "What the hell is your problem Natasha?"

She brushed his hand away, wrenching his wrist in the process. "My problem? You're the one who just kissed me! This cannot be happening right now. Why would you do that?"

She tried to walk past him again, but he blocked her path. "I don't see what the big deal is," sad Clint.

"You have a _girlfriend_ Clint! Or have you forgotten Barbie so quickly?"

"I knew you were jealous of Clara. You're just not a big enough person to admit it."

"I won't admit it?" said Natasha. "Would you like me to call her up and explain what just happened?"

"Are you going to include the part where you kissed me back?"

"That's not true."

"Funny, I seem to recall your tongue saying otherwise," said Clint. "Are you going to tell her you invited me to in the first place?"

Natasha's eyes narrowed. "I did no such thing."

"I'm so sad. My life is a lie. I wish this was real. Kiss me Clint," he mocked.

"I never said that."

"You didn't need to!"

"I think you should stop trying to read between the lines," said Natasha. "And you might need to have you eyes checked Hawkeye, because you're seeing things that aren't there."

"Things that aren't there? Natasha, every poignant conversation we've ever had was started by me reading between the lines. Maybe I wouldn't have to if you'd ever just tell me what was wrong!"

"Maybe I don't want you meddling in my life," said Natasha.

"If you weren't so emotionally stunted, I wouldn't have to!"

"Excuse me?" Natasha took a threatening step toward him.

"I wouldn't have to pry if you could ever just tell me what was wrong. We probably could have avoided this whole thing if you had just told me what was bothering you back in Montreal. I swear you're incapable of normal human emotion. Do you know how hard it is to deal with someone who's so . . . emotionally mute? What the hell is wrong with you Natasha?"

She froze. Her voice turned icy. "You bastard. You know damn well why I'm like this."

"You're not the only one with a rough childhood."

"You have no idea what I've been through, Clint. You have _no idea_ what it's like to be stripped of yourself!"

"I have no idea because you won't tell me! You're too afraid to let me in!" Clint shouted.

"Have you ever considered that maybe I don't want you in my life? Go back to ogling at you emotionally stable girlfriend." Natasha dropped down on the couch, arms crossed and staring fixedly at a stain on the area rug. "Do you love her?"

"Yes."

"Then that's settled. Now we can get back to work." Clint didn't move. She glared over at him. "What?"

"We've had this fight before," said Clint.

"Again, I think you need you eyes checked."

"What if Clara wasn't part of this?"

"Are you hitting on me? Clint I swear to god -"

"What? No. I'm talking about Montreal."

"Why do you keep bringing that up?" said Natasha.

"Because you refuse to!"

"What?"

"Natasha, if I wasn't involved with Clara, would we still be having this fight?"

"Yes. Clint you can't seen to get it through your head, but we _cannot_ be compromised. What happened out on the fire escape, what happened in Montreal, it puts our lives in danger."

"And this doesn't? Natasha being in a functional romantic relationship is safer than being at each other's throats. This _is _us being compromised."

"Go back to your girlfriend Clint."

"You're running."

"So don't follow me."

"Natasha, what are you so afraid of?"

She stood up, ready to walk away, but the words came out before she could stop them. "I'm afraid of loosing you!"

"What? That makes no sense," said Clint.

Natasha took a few steps away.

"Stop running away from me!" Clint shouted.

"Fine! Are you sure you want to play this game? I'm _terrified_ of loosing you."

"So you push me away?"

"We have to stay partners Clint. We need to keep whatever messed up friendship we have. If we get involved, we'll breakup and maybe never speak to each other again!"

"Kind of like now?"

"This can get better!" she shouted. "You and I have been through worse. We'll fix it! But I absolutely cannot risk a fight we won't come back from. I need you Clint. You are the only reason I haven't drowned in all the blood yet. You are the only reason I don't wake up screaming every night. You're all that I've got. So yes, that's why I panicked after we had sex that night in Montreal, that's why I requested leave from you. Anything is better than you and I as a couple!"

"Get out," said Clint through gritted teeth.

"Go call Clara. I know you can reprogram the satellite phone."

Clint grabbed her by the arm and hauled her to the door. "I'm serious Natasha, get out."

Natasha didn't even need to think, her legs carried her down the hall and away from the apartment. When the elevator didn't respond immediately she flew down the stairs. She didn't even stop to wonder about the clamor she could hear behind the door of 4B.

About a minute earlier:

Boris and his poker buddies sat at the card table munching on cheese and cold meat. The deck of cards remained unshuffled and the colorful plastic chips sat in their box. The night was not without its share of bets however, and the stack of money on the table grew as Clint and Natasha's fight raged upstairs.

"Face it," said Lornic, "I win. Pay up."

"Not so fast. You said they's split up, not that they'd fight," said Boris.

"Wait!" called Marika from the other side of the room.

"Darling, what are you doing?" Boris asked. His wife stood balanced on the arm of the sofa, her ear cupped to the brass vent.

"Tying to hear better."

"It won't matter. You don't speak two words of English."

"Shut up," said Marika.

"Don't you go speaking to me like -"

"I'm serious, I think that was the . . ." She was interrupted by the unmistakeable sound of a slamming door.

"That's twenty to me!" said Lornic. "That's a split if I ever heard one."

"Someone's coming down the stairs!" cried Marika. She bounded off the couch, skidding to a stop at the door as the poker boys fumbled out of their chairs and crowded behind her.

"Which one is it?" asked a man named Nándor.

"Hush up boys," said Marika, "someone's coming!"

Out the peephole she watched the redheaded women dash by.

"It's the girl!" she shouted.

"I don't believe you," Boris grumbled. He threw the door open in time to see Natasha running down the stairs. "Crap."

"Pay up, all of ya," said Marika. Then men begrudgingly took out their wallets. "You all just wanted the hot girl to stay upstairs."

"You just wanted the guy!" said Boris.

"Yes, darling, but I won."

Natasha ran out onto the street. A few of the street lamps flickered, and another was out all together. The street was all but deserted. Misty rain made her shiver. A few of the nearby restaurants and convenience stores still glowed with halogen lights and neon OPEN signs, but she ignored them.

They had only been in the neighborhood for a week, but Natasha knew exactly where she wanted to go. A few blocks from the apartment, she came to a stop at the _Karcsi and Prioska Gyramati Primary School_. The paper-chain and scribble-covered windows were dark, but it wasn't the school she was interested in.

Natasha hopped the fence and landed in the wood-chip covered bed of the playground. She had noticed this place of their first cab ride to the apartment and made a mental note of it in case she needed to clear her head. She hadn't imagined she'd need it so soon.

Ignoring the swings and the playhouse and the slide, Natasha stepped up to the two metal pull-up bars suspended between warn wooden polls. Wiping the taller bar dry she grabbed on with both hands and hoisted herself up. Natasha spun herself over and pulled herself up into a handstand. Her muscles quivered, it had been a long time since she'd done gymnastics like this. She refused to stop, spinning around and around the metal bar, in every spin she could think of, balancing on the cold metal and the wooden polls that held it up until she'd lost herself in the dizzying blur around her.

When Natasha finally touched back down on the wood-chips, she could think straight. She walked to the swing set and took a seat, careful not to touch the chains with her palms. Even in the dim light on the playground, she could see the blisters that had opened on her hands. She winced as the misty rain stung at them.

She had finally said it, finally confronted Clint about their relationship. He got everything he wanted: she stopped running from him, and actually told him to ignore her and go back to his girlfriend. Of course he hadn't understood her argument though. He had other people keeping him from drowning; Natasha only had him. This was the only way they could work. She knew that. Only here, alone in the rain, she was having more trouble than usual swallowing her feelings. If she was somehow back on the fire escape in this very moment, she didn't think she would be able to push him away again.

In the apartment, Clint shammed the door behind Natasha and let his head fall against it. Why did she have to be like that? He flopped down on the couch, staring at nothing. She had made it very clear she thought they couldn't be together, but she never said she didn't want to. She might as well have said the opposite. Clint let he head fall into his hands. She could be so infuriating! He was with Clara, he loved Clara. Natasha was afraid of loosing him so she pushed him away? That made no sense! She had been right about one thing though; he could reprogram the satellite phone to talk to Clara.

Clint stood up and pushed the couch aside. He kicked the corner of the rug away and pried up the two loose floorboards. From under the floor, he hoisted out a black plastic case with the Shield insignia painted on it with gray paint. Dropping the floorboards, he brushed the rug back in place and took the case over to the kitchen table. He took out the chunky phone and unfolded the antenna. It looked more like a glorified walkie talkie than a cell phone.

Clint pried the plastic case off the phone. It was programed to send a signal directly to Director Fury and bridge of the Helicarrier. They were supposed to use it when they were ready to take down the Szabo brothers, or if they fell into more trouble than they could handle by themselves. With a little luck though, Clint could reconnect it's dialing function and use it to call Clara. As he worked, this last fight with Natasha kept replaying in his mind. Something about it was bothering him. Well, one thing was bothering him more than the rest. She had finally opened up to him. Wasn't that what he'd wanted for years? Wasn't that why he kept pushing her? Of all the things he'd imagined she might say, what she'd actually said had never crossed his mind.

He dialed Clara's number and waited as the call went through.

He should be happy. She finally told him what was bothering her, and she told him to talk to his girlfriend. Wasn't that the best outcome he could hope for?

He had kissed her though, there was no getting around that. And there was that fact that he hadn't kicked Natasha out until she told him that anything was better than the two of them as a couple.

The phone buzzed to life. "Hello?"

"Clara?"

"Clint! I didn't think I would be hearing from you in a while. Is everything alright?"

"Everything's fine here, I just wanted to say. . ." Up until the words came out of his mouth, Clint wasn't sure which sentence he was going to end up saying. "Clara we're over."


	10. Burns and Bandages

Natasha scanned the room again, quietly keeping tabs on everyone in the cafe. Two aproned workers buzzed to and fro behind the counter, rushing to fill the orders of a pack of corporate lackeys on a coffee run. A couple chatted by the sun-filled windows, and students sat scattered around the plush chairs and couches, headphones in and laptops open.

Glancing up between the canvases that displayed local artist's work, the wall clock read quarter to ten. Natasha took a sip of her latte and let her eyes fall back to her book.

At 9:55 almost on the dot, the bell chimed at the door. Sturdy footsteps clacked on the wooden floor, forceful enough to be heard over the low music. Natasha kept her head bent down into the book. Shifting only her eyes up, she looked into the glass frames decorating the walls. Broad shoulders, a strong jaw, the stiffness of a rough upbringing almost perfectly concealed by expensive clothes and a suave saunter - even in the blurry reflection of a jazz poster, Natasha could tell it was him.

Still feigning interest in her book, Natasha used her peripheral vision to watch Szabo step into line. With another sip of her latte, she allowed herself a better look. No bodyguards, no ear radio, possibly a concealed weapon. Judging by the cut of the suit, it would be in the small of his back, not strapped to his ankle. Not that this was that sort of meeting.

Natasha waited patiently as István completed his usual order. As he was paying the casher, she gathered her things. Timing was everything on an op like this. By now the steps were second nature.

She stood up, folder and book in hand, and walked away from Szabo to a trashcan in the corner. A straight path would seem forced. She threw away her paper cup and took out her cell phone, seamlessly turning around and heading for the exit.

Pretending to type a text message, she glanced at Szabo and adjusted her pace. Just for fun, she even called the spot on the floor where they would meet. She continued forward, looking oblivious but totally aware. 3. . . 2. . . This was the hardest part. She cut him off and their shoulders slammed together, sending her tumbling to the tiled floor. As she when down, Natasha let the papers and book she was holding spill onto the floor, giving them a little push so they would spread out around her.

"My goodness, miss, I'm so sorry. Are you alright?_" _said Szabo in Hungarian.

Natasha made herself blush. "No, no that was completely my fault. I'm so embarrassed." She looked away and began to collect her spilled papers.

"Allow me to help. I insist." István took a knee and began collecting the loose sheets of paper. He picked one up and paused. "_Woman by a Lake_," he said, naming the painting miniaturized in his hand.

"You know it? Most people aren't familiar with Gorgiani d'Scipio, but his work is a perfect representation of the Macchiaioli movement."

He handed her back the stack of papers and stood up. Natasha followed, brushing dust off of her carefully calculated outfit. The skirt and blouse Szabo would perceive as professional and businesslike, while the handmade bracelets that jangled on her wrist let him know she had a taste for the artistic.

"Impressive," said Szabo. "I don't know many young woman so well versed in art history."

"I should hope not. It's my job to be the best. I work for Davenport Gates & Monroe, it's -"

"New York City's premier auction house," István inserted.

"Yes," said Natasha, looking impressed. "We have a client in the city interested in selling _Woman by a Lake._"

"I don't believe we've been properly introduced. My name is István Szabo. I own the _Galleria Szobor_. Have you heard of it?"

Natasha's eyes went wide. "I feel like such an idiot. The _Szobor _is world renown. I am dying to see your contemporary sculpture gallery."

"Have you never been?"

"Unfortunately not. I'm new to the city. My fiancé and I just arrived last week. My name is Charlotte Welch, by the way."

Natasha could see the wheels turning behind Szabo's eyes. Perfect.

"Miss Welch, would you care to join me for a cup of coffee? It's the least I can do."

István escorted her to a high table by the window and ordered her another latte. As they chatted about various artists and art periods, Natasha made a mental note to thank Fury for the required reading.

"Miss Welch, you are a rare woman. American, yet fluent in Hungarian. An expert art historian. Employed by one of the most prestigious auction houses in the world." He paused taking a sip of his coffee. "Why would you say if I offered you a job?"

"At the _Galleria Szobor?_ I'm flattered, but I already have a job."

"This way, you would never have to travel back and forth to New York. Your fiancé would be pleased, I'm sure."

After this past week, Clint just might want her gone as much as possible, but she kept up her smile.

"I don't know, Sir."

"Whatever they're paying you, I'll raise."

"I'm flattered, really. But I'm not sure changing jobs right after changing countries is the best idea. Why do you want me anyway?"

"A position has recently opened up in our acquisitions department."

"And?" Natasha pressed.

"Honestly?"

"If you please."

"Convince your client to sell _Woman by a Lake _to me."

Natasha nodded. "So that's what this is about."

"That would be your first task, yes. But I can tell you are full of potential, Miss Welch." He stood up to leave and pulled a business card from his suit pocket. "I'm holding interviews tomorrow at noon. I do hope you will make an appearance."

Five days later, Natasha was settled into her new office on the fourth floor of the _Galleria Szobor_. The rectangular facade sat immediately beside the Danube river. Strong columns guarded it's entrance and a gold-leaf dome glinted in the sunlight.

With her knowledge of István and Shield's expertly falsified resume, she had been able to play the interview easily. Now she was busy attempting to gather artwork for display at the gallery. Her first task was simple. Szabo didn't know that the real _Woman by a Lake_ had been confiscated by Shield after it's former owner was arrested. White collar crime wasn't Shield's forte, but Fury had had a feeling that owning a masterpiece would come in handy. As Natasha pretended to be negotiating with her client, the canvas was already on it's way to the city.

Natasha looked up from her computer. István had appeared in the hallway outside the glass front wall of her office. "Miss Welch, may I see you please?"

"Of course, Sir." She followed him down the hall and into his grand, wood paneled office. A TV hung on the wall amongst several old prints. The news played quietly in the background.

"How is the acquisition of the d'Scipio coming?"

"Excellently, Sir. I expect we'll have a deal by the end of the week."

"Good. I want you on the Lidel project when your done. You'll be helping Adrienn with _Looking Glass of São Pauline_. The July Exhibition must be spectacular this year."

"Of course."

Natasha was turning to leave when the TV caught her attention. " . . .at this warehouse in the Eastern Shipping District." said the reporter with the flaming husk of a building behind her. "Fire crews are still working to get the blaze under control. There are three reported casualties at this time."

"Such a tragedy," said István. "Luckily my brother owns more than one warehouse."

"I didn't know you had a brother in the shipping business," Natasha said calmly even as her heart rate quickened. "I hope he's alright."

She left István and turned back down the narrow marble hallway. Natasha grabbed her cell phone from her purse and kept walking until she hit the end of the hallway. She dialed Clint's number as she paced back and fourth before a floor to ceiling window that seemed to drop straight down into the river. No answer. And again.

The more times she called, the quicker she paced, and the tighter she gripped the phone. Maybe Clint had to leave his phone as he evacuated the building. Maybe not.

She shouldn't leave the office, not so soon after landing the job. Natasha returned to her desk and tried to type. The lifeless screen of her phone starred back at her from the desk. No call. No text.

Natasha grabbed her purse and locked her office door. "Dorina, if anyone's looking for me, I'm taking an early lunch."

Natasha took a cab to a wharf a few blocks away from the fire. She hurried up to the police tape perimeter where a small crowd had gathered. Sirens blared and red lights flashed as more fire trucks arrived. Smoke curled up into the sky.

Where was he? Natasha scanned the cluster of workers waiting behind the line. Paramedics scurried around attending to the wounded. No Clint.

A soot-covered firefighter burst out of the building with a man tossed over his shoulders. The paramedics and policemen flocked toward him, leaving Natasha time to slip under the yellow plastic tape. They flipped the limp man onto a waiting gurney. It wasn't Clint.

Natasha disappeared into the shadows, using the chaos to hide herself and search the crowd. Where could he be? She looked up at the warehouse hissing angrily in the flames. Natasha skirted along the police line toward the side of the building. She was close enough to feel the ugly heat on her face when a hand grabbed onto her arm.

"Hey," said Clint.

Natasha punched him lightly in the chest. "Where the hell were you?"

"In one of the ambulances," he said dragging her away.

"What? Are you alright?"

"You can't be seen here." He pulled her behind an empty fire truck. "Charlotte Welch thinks I'm a banker, remember." Once they were hidden, his face softened.

"Clint, are you okay?"

"A beam came down on my shoulder, but it's fine, it's just a little burn."

As the fear of the moment drained away, they remembered that they had barely spoken in a week.

"You scared me."

"Sorry." said Clint. "Listen, I'm fine. We'll talk later; not here. You need to get back to the gallery."

Natasha turned to leave.

"Hey, Natasha. Thanks."

That night, Natasha came home to find Clint sitting on the couch wrestling with his shirt.

"Hey, hey, what are you doing?" Natasha asked, dropping her purse on the table.

"I hate this thing," he growled, clawing at the bandages.

"Stop that," Natasha scolded. "You're just going to hurt yourself more. Let me help." Natasha washed her hands and sat down next to Clint. She gently slipped the arm of his shirt over his shoulder. He winced as she started to peel away the gauze and bandages. "Clint this isn't just a little burn," she said, uncovering his blistered shoulder.

"I know. András gave me the next week off."

"Really?"

"I'm useless to him this way." Clint tried to shrug and clenched his jaw as pain flooded his shoulder.

"Enough of that, tough guy." She grabbed the jar of burn cream where Clint had laid it on the table and began gently applying it to the raw areas of his skin. "You said you wanted to talk. About the fire, I mean."

"Yeah. It was so strange."

"Why?"

"I swear the alarm went off _before_ the fire started. Then all of a sudden the whole place was up in flames," Clint explained.

"You're thinking arson?"

"I have no doubt Szabo set the fire, I just don't know why."

"What could he be wanting to hide so badly? I mean, torching a warehouse full of arms and ammunition, that's a lot to risk." Natasha padded Clint's shoulder with a fresh layer of gauze and picked up the bandage roll. She started just above his elbow, slowly winding the cloth around his wound.

"That's the thing. When that beam came down on me, it took part of the nearest crate with it. Guess what was inside."

"Guns?"

"Paintings."

"What?" said Natasha.

"Huge, old-fashioned oil paintings."

"István must use his brother's company to ship art to his gallery, but he would be stupid to leave one masterpiece in a warehouse like that, let alone a crateful."

"Art forgery doesn't really seem like the TPE's style."

"No, it doesn't," said Natasha. "I'll keep my ears open at the gallery. If any actual priceless masterpieces went up in flames, the art world will be buzzing. Somehow I doubt that's the case though."

"When I go back I'll see if any of the shipping manifestos survived," said Clint.

"When you're ready." Natasha finished the bandage by wrapping his chest several times, then taped it up at his shoulder. She put down the scissors and tape and leaned back on the couch. "You really had me worried today."

"I know," he said. He grabbed her hand and gave it a squeeze. "I would have called, but my phone got left in my locker. I imagine it's just a lump of melted plastic now."

"I figured."

"But you came for me anyway. Why?"

"When we're in a fire fight, I can see whether or not you're okay."

"Technically that _was_ a fire fight, in the most literal sense."

Natasha could't fight the smile that crept over her lips. "You know what I meant."

"Yeah, I do."


	11. Dance With Me Tonight

Over the next few days, Natasha tried to stay focused at work. Each time István walked by, more questions fluttered through her mind. What did the paintings mean? How was István involved in the TPE's plot? What was the gallery's role?

It was three days since the dock fire, and Natasha was still tossing the possible scenarios around in her mind as she typed. At the soft scrape of her office door she looked up.

"Hey, Charlotte," said her goodnatured co-worker with a smile.

"Hey Adrienn. What can I do for you?"

"How did it go with the Rindicourt Museum?"

"Decently so far," Natasha replied. "They've agreed to lend us _Untitled #3_, but they're hesitant about shipping _Rosepettles, _even for the exhibit about evidence of rust in the statue's armature."

Adrienn giggled. "How stupid do they think we are? Everyone knows Carmino Saltieri used Aluminum wire for his armatures. No iron at all."

"I know! I couldn't believe it when the assistant curator said that to me!" said Natasha.

"That's alright. He'll come around," said Adrienn. She disappeared down the hall, then popped her head back in a second later. "Hey, are you heading out soon?"

Natasha looked up again. "I've just got one thing to finish."

"Alright, I'll see you tomorrow. I know you're new, but don't overwork yourself too much."

"Don't worry. I'm almost done," Natasha smiled.

She waited until clack of Adrienn's footstep disappeared down the hall, then eyes the clock on the corner of her monitor. Ten minutes should be enough. Natasha went back to work, pretending to finish up her task. When enough time had passed, she powered down her computer and collected her purse and keys. She locked her office door and walked casually down the hall, slipping her thin black coat over her shoulders as she went. Only a few employees remained on the office level.

Natasha took the stairs, as she usually did, but instead of continuing to the ground floor, she ducked out of the stairs at a door marked level two. Transitioning onto the display floor, she found herself among the meandering students and observers strolling the gallery on this mild summer afternoon. Natasha made her way through several exhibits, pausing to examine a piece here and there. In a back corner of the Greek room, she came to a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. She swiped her identification badge and the heavy door unlocked with a click.

The temperature dropped significantly as she entered the storage room. The air was more stagnant and smelled of dust and oil and canvas. Here the exhibits were not carefully hung on granite walls or displayed on glass-encased pillars. Instead, huge industrial shelving held the unused pieces. Natasha crossed the bare concrete floor and looked up in false awe at the shelves around her.

The storage room was not new to her. Charlotte Welch had a habit of peaking in on her lunch break, but today Natasha was here with a task. She made her way to the shelves nearest to the huge freight elevator that transported even the largest sculptures and canvases from the ground floor. A new shipment of paintings leaned carefully against the wall. Thick plastic wrapped their frames, but it was still possible to see to the colors beneath. Some were beautiful certainly, but it was not aesthetics that interested Natasha. These paintings had all come from András Szabo's shipping company, and they had all arrived _after_ the fire. Whatever these paintings were being used for, the Szabo brothers seemed to have a steady supply.

"Snooping in the storage room again, Miss Welch?" István's voice cut the silence.

"Mr. Szabo, sir," she replied. The fluster in her voice wasn't hard to fake. Natasha new that Szabo might confront her, but she still had to play this moment carefully. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to pry, but I heard that a new shipment came in earlier today, an I just had to see it."

"And what do you think of my newest additions? Marvelous, no?" said István.

"Absolutely," she replied. Natasha was careful not to betray her real observations of the paintings such as 'none of there are actual masterpieces,' 'they are all oil paintings,' 'they all include extremely thick areas of paint,' and 'although they appear to be from extremely diverse periods, the colors indicate they are all recent and the strokes say only a few different artists painted them all.' Instead, she stuck to general comments about the composition, or the lighting of a piece, and proclaimed them wonderful examples of this or that movement.

Szabo smiled pleasantly, nodding and interjecting observations of his own. He seemed pleased with Charlotte Welch's assessment of the works, and the fact that she found nothing about them suspicious. They were excellent paintings. In fact, if she hadn't known to look for anomalies in them, Natasha might have believe they were genuine.

"Do you make a habit of this, Miss Welch?"

Natasha shifted her weight and let her purse fall from the crook of her elbow into her hand. "I must admit, Mr. Szabo, I've spent a few lunch breaks down here. Not eating, of course," she added immediately.

"Is that so?" he said. If István decided to check the security footage, which Natasha was positive he would, he would see that she was telling the truth.

"I just love to see the new pieces before they go on display."

"Surly the gallery provided better lighting than in here."

"It's. . ." she paused, pretending to consider telling a secret. "Seeing them first feels like this is my own private gallery. Only a handful of people will ever see them this way."

István smiled. "I admire your perception, Miss Welch. I knew I'd found something special in you." Natasha sighed inwardly with relief. She was afraid she had overplayed the art nerd a bit, but Szabo seemed to like it. "However," he continued, "many of there pieces, including this collection before you, are awaiting restoration before they can be displayed. The fewer disturbances they endure, the more can be preserved. So," he said gesturing to the door," if you would kindly stay out of the storage room in the future. . ."

"Of course, sir," Natasha replied, and made her way from the museum.

Natasha hopped a taxi on the bustling avenue outside the _Galleria_ and headed home. The car slowed several blocks from the apartment.

"Is there a problem?" Natasha asked politely.

"We got construction up ahead, honey. Looks like it could be a few minutes."

"That's no problem," said Natasha, "I'll just get out here."

Natasha paid the driver and stepped out onto the sidewalk. The shrill squeals of children cut through the clamor of machines and gruff voices down the street. Natasha looked beside her to see the playground she had fled to after her fight with Clint. Instead of being bathed in shadows and slicked with rain, the yard was alive with children. Tiny figures in brightly colored outfits climbed over the wood and metal structures and ran over the wood chips. "Get down from there!" a women's voice shouted, "No Primaries on the pull-up bars!" Natasha looked over just in time to see a small girl with a tumbles of khaki hair hanging from the bar. Their eyes met as she dropped to the ground.

Natasha let the corners of her mouth tweak up in a smile, and set off toward the apartment. Even before Natasha turned the key, she could smell the sweet scent of garlic wafting from behind the door. She stepped into the apartment and a wave of different smells washed over her: sautéed onions, tomatoes and seared beef all wrapped in the sweet aroma of paprika. Several potatoes sat on a cutting board. A bundle of carrots awaited the peeler and various spice jars lay strew over the counter. A huge pot bubbled gently on the stove, dwarfing the little gas cooktop. Clint stood in the middle of it all, a dish towel draped over his good shoulder.

"Well well, Martha Stewart, what's for dinner?" Natasha said.

"Hey, Natasha," said Clint as he gave the bubbling red liquid a stir. "Taking inspiration from our present surroundings: Goulash, the national dish of Hungary."

"Enjoying your time off I take it?"

"Actually no. Three days and I'm already going stir-crazy. I can't workout, I can't shoot. So it was on to plan B. I hope you don't mind."

She dropped her keys on the table and took a seat at the tiny counter. "I mind that you don't do this more often. It smells delicious. Seriously, sometimes I forget you even know how to cook."

"Yeah well, a few years in the circus will do that to you."

Natasha smiled. "Sometimes I forget that too." She picked up a carrot and bit down with a loud crunch. "When's dinner?"

Clint turned around and snatched the carrot out of her hand. "Now, apparently." He pointed a large knife at her before chopping the bitten end off the carrot. Clint took the small metal peeler off the counter and handed it over to Natasha.

"You're putting me to work?"

"That's your punishment. You nibble, you help."

Natasha rolled her eyes. "Peeling carrots. Are you sure I can handle it?"

Clint sighed. "Honestly, not really."

"So," Natasha said over the rhythmic tap of the peeler, "why do you never cook like this on the Helicarrier?"

"It's different."

"It would taste the same."

"That's not what I meant," said Clint as his knife sliced through a potato. He paused. Natasha waited. "Cooking . . . it reminds me of when I was younger. Before I was Hawkeye, before I was a Shield agent. Shield might as well own me. You know. This is something they can't have."

Natasha put down the last carrot, starring at the cutting board.

"Sorry if that's corny."

"No," she replied quietly, "I get it. It's sweet."

"Besides, remember that time I lost a bet to Coulson and had to bake him that pie? There was a line of agents outside my door for a week!"

Natasha laughed. "Oh yeah. I swear when the air circulators are on, the hall outside your door still smells like blueberries."

"My point exactly." Clint took the peeled and chopped vegetables and tossed them into the stew. When he turned back around, Natasha had a stick of celery hanging from her mouth.

"Hey!" said Clint.

"You not even using it anymore."

"You're a pest, do you know that?" he smiled. "Now get out of here before you eat the rest of the kitchen." She pouted playfully as Clint swatted her away.

Natasha munched the celery as she crossed the room to the couch. She was about to sit down when she noticed the pages on the coffee table. "Oh my god." The stub of the celery stalk fell from her hand. She bent closer, picking up on of the sheets. She couldn't believe it. "Clint, did you draw these?"

Clint rubbed the back of his neck. He'd meant to pick those up. "The goulash was actually plan C," he confessed.

"These are incredible," Natasha said staring down at the page in her hand. And looking back at her was . . . her. A perfect sketch of her face in the grayscale of graphite pencils. There were others too. A few of Fury and Coulson, one of the Szabo brothers, but mostly they were of her. Natasha let herself down to the couch. "Clint these are. . . wow. I had no idea you could draw like this."

He turned the burner to low and came to stand beside the couch. "Back in the circus we had a caricaturist traveling with us for a few years. Nice fellow. A little quirky. He taught me some stuff. Or he tried. Somehow our little lessons always ended in the same argument. You see, he was all about capturing the essence of a person. The fewer details, the fewer lines you needed to capture a likeness, the better off you were. Me, I was all about the detail. I wanted to get every angle just right."

Natasha didn't reply. She just sat staring at what felt like a mirror.

"Tasha, you alright?"

"You're lucky," she said quietly.

Clint shrugged. "It's a learned skill, just like anything else."

"That's not what I meant," said Natasha. "You're something more than all this. The drawing, the cooking. There's some part of you that Shield doesn't own. I know you don't do it often, but when you pick up a pencil or, . . or a sack of potatoes, you're more than just a dagger off to take another life. You're very, very lucky you have that," she explained. "I don't."

Clint slipped onto the couch beside she and placed a gentle hand on her back. "What do you mean?"

"I'm a bullet, I'm a gun. Nothing more." She looked back at the sketch again. "I don't have an outlet like this. There is no part of me that is separate from the job, that doesn't belong so Shield, or to the KGB. There is no part of me that is my own."

Clint took her free hand rubbing his thumb over her palm. "Natasha, the angles I see when I'm setting up a shot, the lines that tell me where the arrow will go, that's the same principle I use to map the angles of your face." He tucked a curl behind her ear, brushing her cheekbone as he went. "These drawings, these stupid little sketches, they're inseparable from my bow."

"Even still, you have something. I don't."

Clint stood up. "That's not true." He held out his hand and she took it. He pulled her up and lead her toward the open space near the windows, placing his other hand on her waist. "You dance," he said, and before she could object, he had started a slow waltz.

Natasha shook her head.

"You're much better than I am, so you'll have to help me out," said Clint. He spun her around and dipped her toward the window.

"There's no music," Natasha replied.

"You could sing. You do that to, as much as you pretend otherwise."

"That is not going to happen," said Natasha. Slowly she took control of the dance from Clint, leading them in faster spins and more intricate footwork.

"See," said Clint. Even he was having trouble believing how well Natasha was making him move. "You dance."

"But I dance to kill people. I dance so I can seduce unsuspecting men and wring their necks."

"Sometimes," Clint said as they spiraled around.

"Always."

"Well I certainly hope that's not why you're dancing now," Clint jested. "Go on." He let go of her hands and let Natasha sail onto their makeshift dance floor alone. She continued at first with the waltz's rhythm then broke into the graceful, swooping motions of classical Russian ballet. She whirled around performing pliés and arabesques, a grand jeté and all manner of steps. When she slowed, Clint outstretched his arms, calling her back. She spun into his arms and resumed their waltz. Natasha couldn't contain her smile. "It's been so long since I've done that. Years since I've been on pointe."

"I told you," said Clint. Their steps slowed from an elaborate dance-floor waltz to the slow easy steps normal people do at their cousin's wedding.

"Thanks you," said Natasha.

"Of course."

They were looking directly into each other's eyes. Natasha brought her face closer to his, then stopped herself and looked away. They took another few steps before Clint said, "I ended things with Clara."

Natasha faltered then planted her feet on the floorboards. "What?" Her heart rate sped up in her chest, and she knew it had nothing to do with dancing.

"You missed a step," said Clint, coming to a stop beside her.

"When?"

"A few weeks ago. That night. I called her on the satellite phone, but what came out wasn't what I was expecting," he said. "I meant it though."

Natasha swallowed hard and bit her lip. "I, uh, . . ."

Clint hooked a knuckle under her chin and tipped Natasha's face up. She leaned in to meet him. Their faces were inches apart when the timer rang on the stove.

**A/N: Sorry if I'm being too much of a tease with them. **

**Next chapter preview: A gift from András Szabo leads Clint to take Natasha on a date only he could devise, and brings us to the Clintasha moment we all (or at least I) have been waiting for!**


	12. Just Real Enough Parts 1 & 2

As soon as the last man hit the threshold, the unmarked black van peeled away from the curb. The back doors swung wildly as the driver stepped on the gas. A young man with sharp cheekbones and jet-black eyes burst from the warehouse and trained his gun on the van. Two more muscle-covered thugs skidded to a stop behind him and followed suit.

Leather-gloved hands groped for the van doors, pulling them shut just as the sharp pings of bullets started pitting the metal. The sounds stopped suddenly as they took a sharp turn.

"_We're clear"_ said the driver.

The gang of men leaned back against the cold metal, their chests heaving under ammunition vests as they struggled to return their breathing to normal. Clint peeled the heavy weave of the ski mask off of his face. Sweat made his damp hair spike up. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, the black mask hanging from his hands.

"_Did you see that_?" said one of the other men, pulling off his own mask.

"_Boss Korvách won't know what hit him_!"

"_That's what he gets for trusting Junior with his goods._"

"_I'll bet he's still cussing at the empty street!_" another laughed.

"And you," said one on the men. Clint's ears perked up as the conversation switched to English. The nearest man slapped him on the back. "That was one crazy shot you pull off! You see this Mátyás?"

"I don't know many men who make such shot." Mátyás replied.

"I do," said a steely voice from the end of the row. A wormy man with a long stringy face glared over at Clint. His thin eyes narrowed into slits. "You think you're a hot-shot, do you American? You think you're that good? You got lucky. Don't forget it."

"Aw, lay off him Zoltán," said Mátyás.

The stocky young man beside him, Tamás, leaved over to Clint. "Don't worry over Zoltán Varga. He think because he's András' number két - " he held up two fingers, " - he is best at everything. You did very well."

"Thanks guys," said Clint, wiping the back of his neck with the mask. "Honestly, I'm just glad to be back. After a week of the couch, I was starting to go a little stir-crazy."

The driver clicked the radio on, and they rode back to Szabo's alternate warehouse to songs Clint had never heard, but the rest of the crew seemed to know by heart. Clint had to fight not to look at Varga. _You have no idea who you're dealing with, you slimy little weasel, _he thought to himself. _If I ever get the chance, I'l show you just how good a shot I am. _

When they reached the dark tar lot outside the warehouse, Clint helped unload the single heavy plastic case from the van.

"_Óvatos!_" Varga barked, then glaring at Clint added, "careful!" He went ahead to tell Szabo of their return as Clint, Mátyás, Tamás and the others each took a handle and carried the case toward the building.

"Man this thing is heavy," Clint said. He checked to make sure Zoltán was out of earshot. "Do you guys have any idea what we stole from the Agnikais anyway?"

"_Nincs_. We rarely do."

"I heard a rumor though," said Mátyás, "that Boss Korvách and his Agnikais were those behind the robbery at Mérnöki Industries last months back."

"Mérnöki Industries?" Clint repeated. "That's like a science lab?"

"Mátyás shrugged. "We six guys need to carry. You ever see a gun this heavy?"

They brought the case into the warehouse and placed it carefully before the looming form of András Szabo. Almost a mirror of his brother, András had the same broad shoulders and strong jawline, but none of István's suave demeanor. Every detail of András Szabo, from his coarse, graying hair to the thin scar on his pockmarked cheeks, radiated severity.

"_Good work_," he said, walking the perimeter of the case. "_Lock it in the vault._" He waved a finger out at Clint. "Mr. Griggs."

Clint threw up a wave to the others and walked to András.

"This was you first major task since you returned, no?"

"Yes, sir," Clint replied.

"How did it go?"

"Very well, sir. I feel good as new."

"That is good to here, Mr. Griggs. The boys seem to think you are an asset. I look forward to your further participation. You may go."

Clint paused, weighing the pros and cons of what he was about to do. It might just pay off.

"Actually, sir, about that. Is there any chance you have something. . . extra . . . going on? Something I could get involved in?"

"Ah," said András. "Come with me."

Clint followed András into his thin-walled office at the rear of the building. Varga held the door as András took a seat behind his beat wooden desk.

Clint paused as a gun clicked behind his back. Or not.

"Sit," Szabo ordered, and Clint sat in the rickety metal chair waiting before Szabo's desk. He slowly raised his hands in the air.

Zoltán chuckled behind him, his pistol resting on the back of Clint's skull. "I knew you'd be trouble American. I didn't think I'd get this chance so soon."

"What have you heard?" said Szabo.

"Nothing," Clint replied. "Although apparently there's something I should be listening for."

"You have ten seconds to convince me."

Clint sighed. "Alright look, my fiancé thinks I'm a banker. Our wedding's coming up next spring and I've promised her a lot more than I can afford right now, especially after my injury last week. I was hoping to get some extra cash to put toward the wedding. Or at least to buy her a nice gift or something." András raised an eyebrow. "Look I know it sounds stupid, but it's true."

Szabo nodded and Volga very reluctantly pulled the gun away from Clint's head.

"Women can be troublesome," Szabo sighed. "But you told her you were a banker? That was foolish, no?"

"I never actually told her that. I said I was in the business of moving and trading certain commodities across international markets and somehow she read 'investment banker' from that statement."

"And this girl," said Szabo. "You've mentioned her before. Tell me again."

"Her name's Charlotte, and she's a total art nerd. It makes her sound pretentious sometimes, but man, the way her eyes light up when she sees a Monet or a Degas, or even some idiot's doodling, it's magical. And she's gorgeous, with these fiery red curls and big pouty lips. She tries to put on a brave face all the time, like she feels like she always needs to be strong. But she doesn't realize how strong and brave she actually is. How much I know she is."

András studied Clint's face as he spoke, trying to detect the the smallest twitch, the faintest sign of a lie. These deep lies were more of Natasha's specialty, but Clint was sure that this time, Szabo wouldn't find any tells. There were none to find.

"I believe you," he said, leading back in his chair. "I have a proposition for you. Zoltán, you're dismissed."

"This showdown _is _going to happen," Varga spat in Clint's ear. The slimy little man stalked off with a grimace.

"Sir?" said Clint.

"Have you ever heard of _Rózsambimbó_?" he asked. Clint shook his head. "It's a restaurant in the cultural district, very high end, very classy. My wife and I have a reservation their tomorrow at eight. Unfortunately though, something has just come up and I can no longer attend. I was just about to call and cancel. . . unless you would like to take the reservation instead."

"Wow. Absolutely. Of course. Thanks you sir. She'll love it."

"And Sebastian," Szabo added, "all future jobs will find _you._"

"Understood."

"You're back late," Natasha chided as Clint walked through the door. "Long day at the office?"

"Meetings across the board," Clint chuckled.

"Seriously," said Natasha, coming to meet him in the kitchen, "how did the mission go?"

"Well. If stealing from a rival terrorist cell is considered good."

"And your shoulder? How's it holding up?"

Clint pulled off his t-shirt and tossed it over the back of a chair. With his opposite hand, he rubbed his shoulder. "Sore. More so than I'd hoped."

"Hop in the shower," said Natasha. She grabbed his t-shirt from the chair. "Let your muscles relax."

Clint put on a playful frown. "You're just trying to tell me that I stink."

She swatted at him with the shirt. "You've been better, now go on."

Clint disappeared into the bathroom and turned on the water.

"Did you acquire any new intel?" Natasha asked over the hiss of the shower. She threw the shirt in the laundry hamper and sat down at the kitchen counter.

"As a matter of fact, yeah," Clint replied. "The cargo we stole, it was a huge plastic case."

"Just one?"

"Just one, but it took six of us to lift it. On of the boys said it was connected to a science facility, Mérnöki Industries."

"I'll check it out," said Natasha. She pulled out their chunky black laptop and logged on to the encrypted ghost user ID. "Hmm."

"What?" said Clint's voice from the shower.

"Mérnöki Industries rents laboratory space to many different scientists, but apparently a break-in three months ago targeted the labs of Dr. Rudolph Takách, a geologist, and Drs. Tibor Német and Anasztázia Juhász, members of the University of Budapest Quantum Physics Department."

"Geology and Quantum Physics? What would the Szabo brothers possible want with that?"

"I have no idea," said Natasha, "but it all has to connect somehow. Nice work today. Clearly you're making progress with András."

"About that," said Clint. "Something went down after the mission."

"Something like. . .?"

"It's kind of a long story, but basically, I asked if Szabo had any extra work for me. He thought I was prying, but I told him it was because I wanted to buy my dear fiancé Charlotte a nice gift."

"Did he put you on another assignment?" Natasha asked.

"No. . . not exactly," Clint explained. "Have you ever heard of _Rózsambimbó_?"

"Of course. It's a high end restaurant up by the river."

"How would you like to go on a date?"

"There?" said Natasha. "It's a little out of your price range Sebastian."

Clint turned the water off with a squeak of the dial and came out with a towel wrapped around his waist. "But not Szabo' s."

Natasha raised an eyebrow as Clint crossed into the bedroom. "What exactly did you do?"

"Something's going down tomorrow night," Clint explained as he shuffled through several drawers. "I have no idea what it is, but András doesn't want me snooping around."

"Apparently not," said Natasha. "I'm not sure you understand exactly how classy this place is."

Clint tugged on jeans and a clean shirt and walked back out into the kitchen. "Well I'm about to," he said, "because we're got s reservation at eight."

"Wow," said Natasha. They hadn't gotten to play high society in quite a while.

"I'm sure he'll have someone watching us, so we both have to be there. I hope you don't mind."

"Do I mind spending a Friday night at one of the best restaurants in the city? Of course not. You can take me on a date whenever you like, Clint Barton." As soon as the words left her mouth, they both immediately noticed her slip-up. Neither one said a word.

"There's just one thing," Natasha said to break the silence. She grabbed Clint's wallet and pulled out Sebastian Griggs' credit card. "You need a new suit."

Clint shook his head. He knew exactly where this is going. "Which means you need a new dress."

"Reservation under Szabo, party of two," Clint said to the hostess as they stepped out of the octagonal glass lobby and into the restaurant proper.

"Right this way, sir," the short bespectacled woman replied. Clint looked around as she led them across the floor.

"Wow, you weren't kidding," he said to Natasha.

"I told you," she replied.

Rosy wooden columns rose up three stories, where they flared out into magnificent arches that wove a flowery pattern over the ceiling. Parquet isles wound through the carpeted floor, and a string quartet played softly on a raised marble platform. Crystal chandeliers hung low over the tables, casting a soft glow over the deep red table clothes. Another fleet of chandeliers stopped higher up, where green vines and creepers spilled over their brass edges. Massive glass windows let in the light of a crescent moon, and afforded a view of the street and the river.

"A waiter will be along shortly," the hostess said, gesturing to a small round table. As she turned and left, Clint pulled out a chair and waived Natasha into it.

"Why Sebastian, I'm impressed," she teased as she took her seat.

"So am I," Clint said absently. Natasha's sleek emerald gown draped low down her back and a misty sheer scarf hung between her elbows. "I mean, I'm glad you went with the green one. You really do look gorgeous Charlotte."

She smiled. "You don't look so bad yourself." Natasha leaned across the table and straightened his tie, it's pale green an almost perfect match to her scarf. Clint brushed off the gray sleeves of his suit and unwrapped his silverware. As he did, he let his smooth cloth napkin flutter to the carpet. Clint bent down to pick it up, taking the chance to scan the bottom of the table. He sat up an nodded. Natasha finished scanning the wall and nodded back.

"So we're not being bugged," Clint said quietly, barely moving his lips. "Which means we're probably being watched."

Natasha turned, taking in the panorama of the restaurant."My three o'clock," she said quietly, turning back to Clint. "Sweaty, anxious, suit doesn't fit well because Szabo just tasked him this morning, cell phone hidden on his lap for updates, and a girlfriend who seems to know she's out of place." Clint twirled his empty wine class until he could see the pair, and nodded.

A mustachioed waiter with a cloth folded over his forearm approached them. "May I start you off with a bottle of wine?"

"Absolutely," said Clint.

"Thank you for doing this," Clint said after the waiter had disappeared with their empty plates. He took Natasha's hand across the table.

"Of course. It's not like we had much of a choice, but I love getting dolled up."

"For parties, not for dates."

Natasha's eyes slid down to the table cloth. "I know. It's . . ."

The atmosphere of the room hushed suddenly and Clint and Natasha looked up. At a table by the door, the small figure of a man in a tuxedo bent down on one knee. The woman sitting across from him threw her hands up in surprise. She nodded and the cavernous room echoed with applause. Clint and Natasha clapped along, and as soon as the sound died down and the chatter of conversation rose again, their hands found their way back to each other.

Natasha shook her head. "They don't get it. None of these sweet little Romeos or Juliets understand that they're just playing a game. The flowers and dates and fancy dresses, they're all pawns." She looked out at the the other couples smiling throughout the restaurant. "They're like children. They can't see beyond the playground. So naive, so ignorant. So . . . innocent."

"You really believe love is only for children?"

"I don't see how it's can't be. It's funny. I've probably been on more dates than everyone here, and they're always the same. Not as nice as this place of course, but still, always dinner and flowers and ties and perfume."

"But none of the dinners you're talking about were real. You were there on assignment."

Natasha sighed. "And tonight's no different, but it doesn't matter. They're all the same. I just wish these idiots would grow up. Or I used to. Now sometimes I find myself wishing I could grow down."

"Charlotte," Clint said gently, but even so the name stung. _Just real enough to remind us it's all fake_.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to insult you. I know you don't believe that, I mean, you have a girlfriend. Or. . . you did."

Clint looked anxiously over at their babysitter, and let the conversation switch topics. Sebastian and Charlotte were laughing over their trip to Peru when András's scout walked by with the anxious blonde on his arm.

"Whatever was happening tonight must be over," said Natasha. "Otherwise big brother wouldn't be allowed to go."

Now that they weren't being watched, Clint finally voiced the though that had been pestering him. "You haven't said anything."

"What?"

"About Clara. You never said anything."

"What exactly to you want me to tell you?"

Clint cradled his forehead in his free hand. "I don't know. That I'm not an idiot. That I haven't made some horrible mistake. That I was right."

Natasha sat straight up in she chair. "That you were right leaving a nice, normal, sane girl for . . ." Her hand jerked as she choked on the last word, but she didn't let go. _Me._ He had done this for her. "What could I possibly say to that?"

Clint gave her hand a squeeze. "Just please don't tell me you're sorry."

Natasha squeezed back. "I'm not."

They left the restaurant with their fingers intertwined, and part of each of them knew it wasn't just for show.

"_23 Talán Street, Nineteenth district." _Natasha instructed the cab driver as they exited the restaurant.

"_Actually, drop us off on the east side of Széchenyi Bridge," _Clint said. Natasha raised a puzzled eyebrow. She knew he wan't picking up Hungarian that fast. Why had he bothered to learn that phrase?

"What are you up to?" she asked.

Clint smirked. "You'll see."

The cab pulled off the rotary onto a small gravel parking lot at the foot of the bridge.

"_You sure this is where you want to be?"_ the cabbie asked.

_"Yes, I think it is,"_ said Natasha as she tried to read Clint's face.

The gravel shuffled beneath their feet as the car drove away. The sparse street lamps flickered, bathing their faces in shadows.

Natasha turned on her heel, surveying the scene. "And. . ?"

"And we have somewhere to be." Clint took her by the hand and led her up worn cement steps set into the hill. They came to a break in the guardrail, and Clint led her out onto the bridge. Cars whirred by them as they walked along the raised sidewalk. Huge wire ropes rose up beside them, racing to the suspension cable that swooped overhead.

"Seriously, where are we going?" Natasha asked.

"You'll see."

They came to the bridge's support tower, an ornate archway that curved over the roadway. It loomed before them like a white granite skyscraper. The pedestrian walkway bent around the tower, separating them from the street. Clint pulled Natasha close to cool stone.

Hidden from lights of the roadway, he lead her to a small door concealed on the face of the tower. Even in the dim light, Natasha could see that the door's padlock had been cut. She had a feeling she knew who did it.

"Breaking and entering now are we?"

"We've done worse," Clint said as he unhooked the broken lock and discarded it on the ground. The bare bulb of a small emergency light buzzed to life as he opened the door.

"Seriously, what are we doing here?" Natasha asked again. A lattice of steel beams rose up inside the stone pillar. Bunches of coated wires raced up the walls, draped haphazardly over the beams. From the little entry way where they stood, the hollow chamber tapered to within inches of the elevator shaft that stretched up the middle. Clint drew back the cage door with a squeak and ushered Natasha inside.

She hesitated before placing her foot on the grated floor. "Is this safe? When was this bridge built again?"

Clint smiled as he stepped in behind her and closed the door. "Don't you trust me?"

"You already know the answer to that."

"Good," Clint said, and he hit the 'up' button. The elevator came to life with a groan. The bare granite sides of the shaft passed by as the metal cage hauled them slowly to the top.

It opened to a small square chamber, lit with the same ancient bulbs. A crisp breeze whirled in through open doorways, which appeared to lead to a maintenance balcony.

"They have to change the lightbulbs somehow," Clint shrugged. Natasha stepped toward the doorway, but Clint caught her wrist. " Not yet." He shook his head and pointed to worn ladder whose twenty rusty rungs stretched up past the ceiling into an even narrower shaft.

"I hope these heels can take it," Natasha said as she followed him up the rungs. The light nearly disappeared as the granite closed in around them.

"A while ago you asked me how I see," Clint said as they neared the top. He used his forearm to push open a peeling green trap door and climbed out of the shaft. He held a hand out to Natasha, helping her up. "This is the best explanation I've got."

"Oh . . my god," Natasha managed to breath as he helped her on top of the bridge. The entire city of Budapest swept out around them in a magnificent panorama. Massive spotlights illuminated the towers and cables of the bridge, dwarfing the stream of red and white pinpoints that the cars flowing below had become. The Danube river meandered below them, glittering in the lights of the city, and reflecting the crescent moon that shone brightly in the crisp, clear sky. Just up the river, the Hungarian Parliament Building sat like a cathedral on the opposite bank. It's ornate spires stretched up toward the moon and it's arches and domes stood proudly before the city. An army of floodlights bathed its facade in soft white light, making the building seem to glow. Bars of white and orange light streaked out across the river. Behind them, the Hungarian National Gallery echoed the parliament building, its thick Roman columns aglow with what seemed like moonlight. Natasha spun around as slowly as she could, trying to soak up as much detail as possible. The longer she looked the more she saw, from the glittering glass window of the restaurant they had just left, to the _Galleria Szobor _in the distance, with its display banners waving in the breeze.

"Clint, this is . . ." Natasha choked, "this is incredible." She continued to walk in slow circles around the flat stone bridge top, trying to capture the panorama in her mind.

"I though you might like it," he said, trying to mute his grin.

"No wonder you like to see the world from a distance."

"Of course most views aren't quite as spectacular as this one," Clint said. "But something about places like this, it feels . . . "

"Kind of like you're flying, Hawkeye?"

"Something like that."

Natasha finally stopped circling, picking her favorite angle of what she was sure in that moment was the best view in the world. She crossed her arms against the stinging wind that whipped over the bridge. It bit into her bare arms, but she didn't much care. Clint came up behind her and wrapped his muscular arms around her. Natasha leaned her head back against his.

"And the best part about flying?" Clint said softly.

Natasha guessed his next words. "We're free. No Shield. No TPE. No babysitters, no handlers. This place belongs only to us."

She pulled his arms even tighter around her and he held her safe and close.

"So," Clint said after a while. "No flowers, no chocolates, no restaurant. How did I do?"

"Technically we went to a restaurant," said Natasha.

"_Rózsambimbó_ was for Charlotte Welch," said Clint. "This is for you. Do you still think love is only for children?"

"Yes," Natasha whispered, "but I think this might be how it feels to be a child."

They stood there silently, breathing in the crisp scent of the river air. For the first time in quite a while, no part of Natasha wanted to run. No part of her wished she was somewhere else, or someone else. Clint held her tightly, grateful to finally have Natasha in his arms.

"I love you," Clint whispered into her ear, just loudly enough that she could hear it before the wind swept the words away.

"I know." Natasha let the moonlit city disappear as she closed her eyes. "I love you."

Clint took her shoulder and turned her slowly around so their eyes would meet. She grabbed his jaw and pulled him in for a passionate kiss. Natasha wrapped her arms around his head, and Clint held the small of her back, pulling Natasha toward him. With their foreheads resting together, they finally broke long enough for Clint to whisper back, "I know."

That night, a very irritated Lornic Lovász awoke to the ringing of the telephone. "What do you want?" he growled into the receiver. A smug chuckle met him on the other end of the line. "Boris? Do you have any idea what time it is?"

"Yes, I do," said Boris. "The Missus and I haven't been able to sleep a wink."

"Why? Are the fifth floor love birds in a fight again? Frankly I don't much care."

"You should," Boris said, his smirk practically being transmitted through the telephone.

"What? Why?"

"Because, Lornic my friend," said Boris, "you owe me some money."


	13. Free Fall

**A/N: Sorry I didn't update last week! Also, you were all to polite to tell me a made a kind of major mistake and had them repeat the same conversation in two different chapters. Oops! Anyway, I went back and fixed it. **

**Enjoy!**

Clint took a sip of his steaming coffee and replaced his arms on the sharp metal raining. The soft orange tones of the sunrise filtered over the city, but a midnight chill still hung in the air. He heard the scrape of the window behind him, but didn't turn as Natasha came to join him. She rested her forearms on the rusty rail, the ceramic sides of her own coffee mug warming her hands against the chill. The buildings channeled a crisp breeze through the alley, making the silky edges of her robe flutter. She dug her bare toes into the metal grate beneath them. Only the rustle of stray garbage broke the early morning silence.

"So," Clint said after a while. He kept his eyes trained on the distant city.

"So," Natasha replied. She took another sip of coffee and a few deep breaths before she added, "We are well and truly compromised."

Clint shook his head. "I told you, this isn't compromised. Not for us."

"This is the _definition_ of compromised. You and I don't get special treatment."

"Fine, let's pretend that's true. How does compromised feel?"

Natasha glanced down to the alley floor five stories below. "Like we're on our way to Marrakech."

"Marrakech the time we hitchhiked in with that olive merchant or -"

"The time we dropped in from 10,000 feet," said Natasha.

Clint leaned closer to his mug and let the steam curl around his nose. "What are my chances that's a good thing?"

"Like that rush you get when your feet leave the metal, and all the anxiety you had before the jump flies away. All the courage you had to build up - and the push you maybe needed - seem worth it, and your so glad the crazy irrational part of you won out. The speed of the plane throws you forward and the wind whips around your ears. In those few seconds before you remember that you're plummeting to the ground and your parachute might not catch, you can't help but enjoy the free fall."

Clint looked over to her. "Again, is that a good thing?"

Natasha closed the gap between them and bunched his t-shirt in her fist, pulling him in for a kiss. "Yes," she said, "I think it is."

Clint brushed her hair away from her face. "Natasha," he said carefully, "what happens when we reach the ground?"

She fought the urge to look away. "I don't know. And I'm trying so hard not to care."

Clint looked over at the sunrise brightening the sky beyond the alley. "I can't believe Szabo wants me in today. On a Saturday morning. On _this_ Saturday morning."

Natasha took his coffee mug and climbed back through the window. "Do you know why?"

"Whatever went down that night, they must need cleanup. Or maybe just extra muscle to guard the door."

"How did you say your relationship with András was again?" Natasha asked.

"Rocky at best," Clint replied from the fire escape. "Why?"

Natasha tugged on her sash and let the black silk fall away from her shoulders. "Because I'm wondering how he'd feel about you being late to work."

No flowers, no teddy bears, no pet names. Those were the rules.

"Call me anything other than Natasha, and I'll damage you for life."

"Whatever you say, Honeybear."

No dinner dates, no breakfasts in bed, no child's games.

"You'll never be my target; I'll never be your mark."

"Just promise me it's real."

No saying 'I love you.'

"There's no use. I already know."

And it _worked._ Clint had been right, and that killed her. He had been trying to tell her for years that the two of them as partners and as a couple were the same thing. He tried to tell her that they would't blow up, they would fall farther in sync. And they had. It pissed her off a little bit, how well he'd called what would happen.

Natasha looked up from keyboard at the picture frame on her desk. _Snarky bastard_, she thought as she studied the miniature of Clint's face, his hair bleached almost pure blonde in the light of the park. She ran her hand over the cheap wooden frame. She loved this picture. It wasn't the best photograph, just the two of them in _Margitsziget, _one of the island parks in the Danube. Unlike the photos behind it, this one was real. It hadn't been photoshopped to fit a cover; it didn't come with an explanation to memorize. It was theirs. Of course, Natasha hadn't wanted to take it, but Clint hadn't given her a choice. He'd spent the entire walk trying to make her laugh, When she'd finally lost control, he swung beside her and snapped the picture. She scolded him immediately, but every time she looked up at the frame, she was so glad he hadn't listened. The way he caught them laughing, he'd managed to make her look happy. Maybe it wasn't just a look.

Natasha tried to return to her work, but she couldn't focus. Especially not with the dull pain of a headache throbbing in her skull. Again. She reached down and pulled open one of her desk drawers. She shook two red pills into her palm and swallowed them dry. Replacing the travel sized plastic bottle, Natasha could feel how light it had gotten. She felt like she'd had a headache for the whole week.

Natasha closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. When a knock echoed on her door, she stopped rubbing her temple and looked up. "Hey, Adrienn."

"So I was just looking through the _Hermitage_ case and I - Charlotte, are you alright?"

"Hmm? Just tired." Natasha replied. She tried to put the exhausted ache in muscles out of her mind.

"Are you sure? You look a little pale."

Natasha put on a smile. "Really, I'm . . . fine."

"So, like I was saying, with the big exhibit opening only a month away, we should . . ."

The more Adrienn talked, though, the less sure she was that that was true. Her muscles ached, her exhausted eyes wanted nothing more than to close and shut her body down, and her stomach had been rolling uneasily all morning. Only 'run for your life' missions made her feel this way. And throw in a blow to the head to account for the pain in the back of her skull.

" . . . István really wants the Edouard Beaulieu to round off the collection, but he said he would settle for the Gioacchino Luzzatto if . . ." Adrienn was saying.

Natasha grabbed the arm of her chair. The uneasy rolling in her stomach sank into and angry churning. A gagging knot rose in her throat. "Adrienn, would you excuse me for one second."

She left the office as calmly as possible, forcing her legs not to break into a run until the bathroom door swung shut behind her. Natasha's knees hit the burnt umber tiles as she vomited into the toilet.

When she finished, she rolled back on her heals and leaned against the stall partition. Natasha wiped her mouth and took a few deep breaths, even though her throat stung with acid._ What the hell? I haven't felt like this since -_

It was all she could do to keep what was left of her breakfast down. Natasha hurried to the sink. She let the cool water run between her fingers, and rinsed out her mouth. Letting it pool in her palms, her bent down and splashed her face. Natasha leaned her arms against the counter and looked into the mirror. Her skin glistened with tap water, appearing even paler under the bright halogen lights. "No," she said out loud.

The more she thought about it though, the more panicked Natasha became. A knot of fear and anxiety slithered up her spine, clamping down on her shoulders and making her shiver and sweat. Natasha placed to finger to her neck, hoping to prove she was just imagining the hammering in her chest. "No. No way in hell."

Still, there was no way she could focus now, not with _that thought_ stalking the back of her mind. Natasha hurried back to her office. Forcing her hands not to tremble, she grabbed her jacket and purse and locked the door behind she. "Tell the boss I'm taking the afternoon off," she muttered absently.

Natasha scurried down the stairs. She had barely made it to the third floor landing when the queazy churning hit her again. _Damn_, she though as she cheeks flashed hot in panic. Without thinking, Natasha shoved open the nearest door and threw her head into a round black trashcan. _That's not proof of anything_, she thought.

The nagging little voice in Natasha's head muted momentarily, as she realized she didn't recognize this room. It was a huge empty space, much like the storage room below, but instead of being lined with shelves, massive sheets of clear plastic hung from the ceiling. Freestanding construction lights gave the plastic an eerie glow. Inside the plastic, Natasha could just make out the shape of framed canvases. _This must be the restoration room._ In her panic, she hadn't even registered the "RESTRICTED ACCESS" sign painted on the door.

_Better not stay much longer,_ Natasha thought. She had no doubt István was watching. She had probably triggered an alarm. Scanning the room one last time, her eyes caught on the only two words she needed to see: Mérnöki Industries. Natasha returned to the stairwell and hurried out of the building.

Not wanting to stay in a cab any longer than she had to, Natasha walked the last few blocks home. The afternoon air swirled in a soft, cooling breeze, but did little to calm her down. That stupid thought kept nagging her. The harder she tried to banish it to the back of her mind, the louder it seemed to yell in her ear, until it was practically screaming at her. Or maybe that was just the headache.

The screams rolling off the school playground cut through the air. As soon as she heard them, Natasha turned onto an adjacent road. That was just something she couldn't handle today.

She found herself on an unfamiliar street, but judging how far she'd cut away from her road, it would only take her an extra ten minutes to reach the apartment. Natasha walked as quickly as she could, although she didn't know why she was bothering. Being home wasn't going to be any better than here on the street. Either way, it was just her alone in her mind.

Natasha kept walking, trying to outrun herself, when the bright lights of a convenience store caught her eyes. She could find out, right then and there. But did she want to? _Well there's no way you're right little voice, so why not end this?_

Natasha walked into the store and looked casually though the overcrowded shelves. She picked up a bottle of painkillers, then placed it back on the shelf. Natasha nodded politely to the cashier as she left.

When she rounded the corner, Natasha pulled a little cardboard box from beneath her jacket. There was no way she was letting this get back to Fury.

Two minutes. Those were the directions. Natasha paced back and forth across the kitchen floor, running her fingers nervously through her hair. With each tick of the kitchen timer, she was less sure she wanted to be doing this. _Shut up. There's no way,_ she tried to tell herself. But, if she was so sure, why bother with the test?

And what if it were true? What was she going to do if that little voice was right?

_There's no way,_ she wanted to scream at herself, but even still she nearly jumped out of her skin when the timer rang. Her heart hammered against her ribs and she picked up that stupid piece of plastic.

Natasha felt like she'd just taken a bullet to the vest. She couldn't move; all the air left her lungs. Her heart pulsed so hard it hurt.

She choked and finally managed to pull some air into her lungs. She picked up the plastic and ran to the window, throwing a wild, furious punch at the heavy bag as she went. She threw the window open with a loud clack that reverberated through the alley.

Natasha screamed. She shouted a deep, furious, panicked scream as she threw the little piece of plastic away with all her might. Once it left her hand, and the scream died in her throat, Natasha collapsed against the metal bars of the fire escape and buried her head in her hands.

The pregnancy test clattered to the ground in the alley below, where only the rats and pigeons would be able to see the little plus sign.


	14. Compromised

So this was what it meant to jump without a parachute. This is how it felt to pull the rip cord and find nothing there. Nothing to slow you down; no one to catch you. Just the patchwork ground racing closer and closer until - Natasha's body jumped. Her shoulders dug painfully against the wrought iron bars. If this was only pulling the parachute, what would happen when she hit the ground?

"Well Clint, you were right before, I'll give you that," she whispered to the air. "That wasn't compromised. _This _is compromised."

Natasha's chest heaved as it debated whether to breath or cry or choke. In her line of work she had seen hell. She had felt fear, felt the paralyzing grip of terror that tried to swallow her whole. She had taken bullets and shrapnel and plenty of lives. More than once, she'd been certain she was about to die. But this was different. This gut-wrenching panic was unlike any she'd ever felt. She had no mask to hide behind, no way to fight back. There was no loop hole, no way out. This was her. She had no way to run.

As soon as Natasha regained control of her muscles, she rose shakily to her feet. She could't bare to sit still, not here. Not in this apartment, where she'd been stupid enough to believe she might get a chance at a different life.

Natasha tugged a jacket over her shoulders and headed out, wandering wherever her feet felt like taking her. Her mind was still reeling to much to care.

How could she have let this happen? All those years of building up walls and pushing him away, and now. . . It had felt so real, this little life they had built for themselves. Just real enough that it hurt to watch it shatter. She had thought for once that her life was under _her_ control. Now whatever shred of stability she might have slipped out of her hands.

_Stupid_, Natasha thought, _the stupidest of stupid mistakes. _She stomped on a stray soda can laying in the street. Mistakes implied rules; rules implied the same old game. "For once, I was trying not to play."

The irony wasn't lost on her, that was for certain. As she wandered though the city streets, she had to stop from throwing her head back and laughing out loud. This was the dream wasn't it? A promising career, a killer body, a boyfriend who did the cooking and a -. Natasha took a sharp breath of air scented with exhaust and river mud. She couldn't bring herself to finish the sentence, not even in her mind. Not yet.

Natasha looked up from the sidewalk and found herself looking at the river. How long had she been walking for? She shrugged. A traffic light turned and Natasha crossed the street.

A tarred path wound its way beside the river, following its dips and turns. Cyclists, runners and folks out for an afternoon stroll dotted the landscape, separated from the city by a grassy, tree-lined strip.

Natasha sat down on a vacant bench, letting the splintering wood and worn red paint drain the soreness from her legs. She watches the current meandering along with a calm she wished she could take for herself. To the north, she could just make out the bridge, _their bridge_. If that night had never happened. . .

_I wish . . ._ Natasha began, but she stopped. She grabbed the edge of the bench and shook her head with a wry smile. She _didn't _wish. She didn't wish Fury had listened to them, or Maria, and never sent her and Clint to Budapest. She didn't wish they'd kept fighting. She didn't wish Clint had made up with Clara, or let her talking him out of dancing, or never taken her up to the bridge. She wanted all of it. She wanted whatever insanity the two of them had become. She wanted Charlotte Welch's life, whatever pieces she was allowed to keep.

Well, maybe not _all _the pieces. All those days she'd wished for something real in her life, this wasn't what she'd had in mind. This was a little too real. Natasha glanced down at her abs and felt another surge of panic flood her veins. With a shiver, she directed her gaze back at the river and locked it there as best she could. Natasha crossed her arms, grabbing her biceps and trying guard herself against something she couldn't escape. _Way _too real.

Of course, it didn't have to be. Not for long. Natasha dug her toe into the dirt. _And here I thought three was the magic number, _she thought. She drew a steadying breath. Could she really convince herself that this time wasn't any different? That this was just a reality of the job that needed to be handled? _Probably not. _Clint wasn't a mark; she cared about him. Did that mean she cared about _it _too?

It's not like she had much of a choice in the matter. If she didn't to it now, she'd just be a liability - distracted and weak. Even if she couldn't bring herself to do it while they were here, once she got back to the Helicarrier . . . Actually, after the Saudi Arabia incident, Fury had at least hinted that she could have said no. Not that it had mattered; she was back of the Active Assets roster that afternoon. _And Clint tries to tell me I'm not a monster. If he knew any of this. . ._

Natasha leaned back against the park bench, trying to let the gentle swish of the river and occasional the crunch of bike tires over the sandy asphalt calm her down. _I wish this wasn't happening_, she thought over and over, as if repeating the words could help. As she turned that ugly, loaded sentence around in her mind, Natasha paused. She looked up toward the bridge, trying to picture the city aglow with moonlight, trying to picture Clint. _That's not quite right_, Natasha realized. _I wish so badly that it _hadn't _happened, but now that is has . . . I don't wish it would end. _

Natasha glanced around, suddenly afraid the joggers nearby could read her face. She had to remind herself that it was only Clint would could read her mind through the smallest details in her eyes. Even if she went up and told the spandex-covered trio the insane thought pinging around in her mind, they wouldn't care. They wouldn't understand how such a thought was so taboo.

And yet somehow, she felt more relaxed than she had all morning. The anxiety remained for sure, but that icy panic was gone, replaced by what, exactly? Excitement? Hope? Happiness? Natasha was to afraid to say, but she could feel it nonetheless.

Natasha let her head fall into her palm, trying to push the happy whispers away from her mind. _What the hell am I thinking? I'm the Black Widow, an assassin, a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, a spy. This only ends one way. _And yet, she couldn't force herself to let go of that thought. _You wanted something real, something Shield couldn't steal from you. You might have just gotten it. _

Just real enough to make you want to hold on.

Natasha bit her lip, but couldn't force down a smile. _This is pure insanity._ And yet she didn't want to let go. Natasha thought back to her art history lesson on the plane here, letting the images of innocent children and couples in love and . . . and young mothers glistening in gold, flash back into her mind. _Maybe I don't have to be _Madame X _forever. _

The thought was ludicrous, she knew. _How could I possible be a mother? _she wondered. _I risk my life for a living.I grew up under handlers and guards. I never learned to be a kid, I was too busy learning to be a killer. I - _Natasha's mind brought up the image of a face, the only gentle face that ever flashed through her bloody nightmares. A kind face framed in waves of auburn hair. She was smiling, Natasha was fairly certain. Each time she tried to examine the image further, all she found were smoke and flames. - _I can barely remember my own mother's face. _

But Clint, he would be incredible. Goodness knows he took care of her all the time. He could be so kind, so gentle. Always knowing what was wrong and how to fix it. Of course he had a fierce protective side as well. Natasha, she was a mess, but Clint would be perfect.

Was she actually considering this? Once this mission ended, was she really going to march into Fury's office with a maternity leave request instead of an abortion waiver? _I think I just might,_ she smiled.

There was only one catch. In order to pull this off, she couldn't tell Clint, not until they left Budapest. Natasha being distracted was a big enough risk on its own, but if they hit a firefight with both their minds elsewhere, none of them would make it out alive.

It wasn't a simple as choking down a secret. That she could do without a second thought. She just happened trying to lie to the only person in the world who could see behind her mask. He could read her every twitch, and Natasha feared she wouldn't be able to hide. "I promise I'll try though. I promise I'll keep you safe."

Of course, in order to do that, Natasha decided she needed a little help. Two hours later she sat on the padded table of a free clinic she'd entered under a fake name. The name Charlotte Welch would certainly send up red flags at Shield, and Natasha couldn't have them finding out yet either. She still had a mission to complete.

The paper covering the table, crinkled as she swung her heels, waiting for the doctor to return.

"Well, Miss Bilnova," said the doctor as she reentered the sparse examination room. Natasha hid a smile. She usually avoided choosing Russian names for herself, but today it seemed appropriate. "Your test results are in, and everything looks normal. We went over the dos and don'ts, now I just need to ask you a few more questions," she said in accented Hungarian.

Natasha patiently answered the woman's queries until one of the questions caught her attention.

"Occupation?"

"I'm in the art business" Natasha replied. She omitted the Galleria Szobor so connection could be drawn to Charlotte Welch.

"Not a restorer I hope."

"Oh, no. I buy pieces for a local gallery. I spend more time on the phone than with the art."

"Try to keep it that way. Art is beautiful, but every medium comes with its own range of chemicals. Oil paints, for instance, were made with all sorts of hazardous substances - arsenic, lead, cobalt, radium. Some hues were even radioactive. But I'm sure you know that. Now. . ." she continued, but Natasha stopped listening. Things were starting to fall into place.

Natasha paced across the living room as she waited for Clint to return. She needed so badly to tell him what she'd uncovered about the case, but she was afraid she might tell him something else too. Could she look him in the eyes and tell him she was fine? Could she handle not being able to talk to him? She had no one else to tell.

The door rattled as Clint turned his key. Time to find out.

"What's wrong?" he asked immediately.

"I need you to do me a favor," Natasha replied. She sat down on the couch to hide as much of her body language as possible.

Clint raised and eyebrow as he dropped his keys and made his way to the kitchen. "A favor like. . ?"

"The next time a shipment of paintings comes into the warehouse, I want to to take a Geiger counter to them."

Clint stopped rummaging through the cabinets and leaned back to look at Natasha. "You think I'll find radiation? Why?"

"Some of the pigments used in oil paints, especially old ones, contain radioactive compounds."

"Interesting, but what does that have to do with Szabo?"

"Because regulatory agencies like Customs would expect a low level of radioactivity in old oil paintings," Natasha explained. "Which makes them the perfect place to hide nuclear material."

Clint paused mid-crunch and placed his bag of tortilla chips on the counter. "With the amount of paintings Szabo's gotten just in the months we've been here . . . dear god. They already have a enough material for a bomb, maybe as large a a few kilotons. But that assumes they can extract the nuclear material from the canvases. You can't fill a bomb with paint, no matter what it's laced with."

"Uh-oh," Natasha said as another puzzle piece clicked into place. "What are the chances that our friends at Mérnöki Industries have tech that can do just that?"

"But András has whatever they stole. The paintings went to the gallery."

"No he doesn't," said Natasha. "I stumbled into the restoration room at the Galleria today, and guess what I found."

Clint snapped his fingers. "That's why András sent us to _Rózsambimbó! _That's what went down that night! They moved what my team stole to the Galleria. Moving paintings between András's company and his brother's gallery is perfectly legitimate, but they had to move the stolen laboratory components in secret to deny the gallery's involvement in whatever they're planning."

"So what did they steal from Mérnöki? They hit a geologist and a quantum physics lab."

Clint walked over to her, leaning on the back of the couch. "Quantum physics, which deals with radioactivity as part of the study of sub-atomic phenomena, and geology, which use radioactive dating to determine the age of rocks."

"Between the two, they must be able to strip the canvases clean and extract whatever isotope they're smuggling from the paint," said Natasha. "It's brilliant really. If they just stole the nuclear material, they would move the top of every most-wanted list in the world. Not to mention the trouble they would face moving it across borders."

Clint grabbed her hand and drew her up, pulling her in for a slow kiss. "It is brilliant," he smiled. "so you must be too. How'd you crack it?"

Natasha couldn't answer. She couldn't even snap at Clint's campy compliment. Wrapped in his strong arms she wanted to tell him everything. She could feel the words forming in her throat so quickly that she had to clamp down on her lip to keep them from spilling out. She was sure Clint could feel her body go rigid as she fought with herself.

"Tasha, you alright?" he asked, his breath warm against her neck.

"I'm fine," she lied. "But Clint, if the Szabos are stripping the paintings here, instead of leaving the nuclear material hidden in the paint where it can be transported, that means the bomb is meant for the city."


	15. Gala Galleria Part 1

The Galleria Szobor

cordially invites

you

to the

10th Annual

Summer Gala

July 26, 2009

"I can't believe this is coming up so fast," Natasha said, holding up the glossy printed invitation. "It feels like we just got here."

"We've been in the city less than three months, that's not very long."

Natasha focused her eyes on the swirling calligraphy of the invitation. "Its longer than you'd think," she muttered.

Whenever she and Clint were alone, time seemed to slow to a painful drawl, especially at first. Natasha knew she should enjoy it. They might not see this much freedom again for a long time. Still, she wished she could speed up the clock and fast forward to the end of this mission. Or at least make the days go by at a normal pace.

Sometimes it was nice. A five minute chat on the fire escape could feel like an hour-long conversation. If Clint managed to make her laugh, she would smile for what felt like the whole night. Otherwise, though, she felt as though she lived in a spotlight, her every move scrutinized by high-speed cameras ready to catch any falter. And of course, if she could stop worrying, Natasha was sure this game would get easier to play.

She had relaxed a lot since that first day though. Oddly enough, it was her first slip-up that helped.

Natasha hadn't heard the click of the lock turning open, or the scrape of the worn wooden door on the floorboards.

Clint swung through the door and grabbed a set of safe keys off the table. He was turning to hurry back down to the wharf when a noise caught his attention. Reaching for the gun tucked up against his back, he scanned the apartment for anything out of place.

"Tasha, you still here?" he called. She should have been at least on her way to the gallery by now.

From her place on the bathroom floor, Natasha clamped her mouth shut and hoped he would just turn around. She jumped as Clint burst through the bathroom door, gun drawn. "Natasha? God Baby you scared me," he said, tucking the pistol away.

She felt that familiar surge of panic race through her, the same as when she blew a cover. This type of panic she could control, turn it around and use it. "Sorry."

"Are you alright?" Clint asked.

Oh no. Was the game over already? "I'm fine," she replied as Clint helped her up.

It was true, she really was okay. On the way out the door she had grabbed a power bar that just did not agree with her. It was going to be a long mission without those things. Clint would find that odd though, so she scanned her mind trying to remember what was in their fridge. "You might want to get rid of the yogurt."

Clint walked to the kitchen as she straightened her blouse. The refrigerator seal opened with a quite pop. "You sure? It says its good for three more days."

"Trust me, it's not."

And he did. He trusted her. Any excuse she made, he took. If she ever made him suspicious, he didn't bring it up. Whether he was just being polite or was actually oblivious, Natasha couldn't tell, but she happily took what she could get. She might just pull this off.

But now that he had caught her once, she had to be more careful: once is an anomaly, twice is suspicious, three times is a pattern. Still, somehow she let herself sink into the life that was almost hers, and a few times she came very close to forgetting the game.

"About the gala, Tasha," said Clint a few afternoons later. "I've got some news."

Natasha jabbed at the punching bag hanging from the living room wall. "Good or bad?"  
"I suppose it depends on how you look at it. András called me in for a job. He called _everyone_ in for a job. His entire crew is running security for the gala."

Natasha stopped, steadying the bag and putting on her best pouty face. "And here I was hoping you'd be my date."

"Yeah, Baby I know. I'm sorry," Clint said. He picked up the second pair of boxing gloves from the milk crate beside the bookshelf and strapped them on.

"It's alright," Natasha replied. "It least we know the Szabo boys have something big planned for the gala."

Clint jabbed at the sand-filled cylinder. "You don't think they'll blow it, do you? There will be a lot of notable people at that party."

"No way," said Natasha, punching it back toward him. "István's put too much effort into his collection to destroy it, and András wouldn't put all his muscle in the line of fire. Besides, with a bomb that size, it would blow a decent chunk of the city."

"You don't think they'll set it off anywhere?" Clint stopped the stepped aside and let Natasha land a powerful roundhouse kick.

"I think that if the Szabo boys were smart enough to come up with this smuggling scheme," she puffed, "they have something a little more creative in mind."

"That might be even worse," said Clint.

"I've got to say, this is a little refreshing," Clint said as he buttoned up his dress shirt and straightened the cuffs.

"What is?" said Natasha's voice from the bathroom.

"It's been a while since we got dressed up for a party we were both actually invited to."

"I'm invited, darling. You're working the door."

Plastic rustled as Clint pulled his charcoal jacket from its dry-cleaner's bag. "You've worked plenty of things at plenty of parties. Now hurry up, I'm almost ready."

"So am I." Natasha came out of the bathroom wearing black lace lingerie and a pair of red stilettos. A matching garter kept a throwing knife strapped against her thigh. Her fiery curls stood neat and perfect under an invisible blanket of hairspray, and she'd pulled a few locks back with a glistening barrette. Makeup dusted her soft face, with a touch of blush highlighting her strong cheekbones and thick mascara making her green eyes gleam.

"Wow," was all Clint could manage to say.

Natasha gave him a playful smile as she sauntered into the bedroom and opened her closet. "You'll like me even better in the dress."

"Somehow I doubt that."

Natasha pulled out a gleaming red dress draped on a silk hanger.

"I thought redheads weren't supposed to wear red," said Clint.

"It's more about choosing your moments," Natasha said as she slipped into the dress. Thousands of sequins shimmered over the gown, catching even the dim light in the bedroom and making it dance. The strapless bodice hugged her frame perfectly, highlighting every curve then letting go at the perfect spot on her hips, where the the fabric raced down to meet the slit carved up to her thigh, then fell to a stop just above the floor.

"I take that back," Clint said as he walked over and ran the zipper up the back of the dress.

Natasha turned around and grabbed the two loose ends of the bow tie draped over his neck. "I wish you were coming with me," she said as she tied it.

"Me too." He kissed her softly so he didn't smudge her scarlet lipstick and lingered for a moment to take in the scent of her hair. Clint reached over to his dresser and picked up two small plastic cases.

Natasha took hers and looked down at the tiny ear radio resting inside. "The day I go to a party without one of these things. . ."

"You're in trouble," Clint joked.

She tugged gently on his ear. "I was going to say, I might actually enjoy the party."

"You're telling me you don't enjoy this?"

Natasha smirked. "I never said that either." She tucked the radio inside her ear and gave it a test. "Here we go. Just as we discussed. Separate cabs twenty minutes apart. I'll be with István coordinating the finishing touches on the gala for the two hours before it starts. Then I'll be in the main atrium with the rest of the guests. You'll be outside sweeping the grounds and patrolling the perimeter of the Galleria."

Clint nodded. "Keep you eyes peeled for any suspicious behavior, or anyone involved in the TPE. Something is supposed to happen tonight, let's be ready."

"Good luck, Hawkeye," Natasha said with a quick kiss on his cheek.

"Good luck Natasha."


	16. Gala Galleria Part 2

As Natasha stepped out of the taxi, a cool gust off the river twirled the hem of her dress. Her heels clacked against the marble as she ascended the Galleria Szobor's main steps. Workers hustled beside her, rolling a burgundy carpet down the center of the stairs and setting up velvet ropes to guide the gala's prestigious guests and benefactors up through the door. Natasha looked up at the huge banners hanging between the Galleria's looming columns. She had been seeing these advertisements for the gala since she had first tailed István Szabo when they had arrived in Budapest, back when she and Clint were barely speaking. So much had changed since then.

That same river breeze licked at the sides of the banners making them rustle. Somewhere one of the workers flipped a switch, and the overhead lights turned of with a tell-tale thunk. With another dull thud, the massive spotlights sitting at the bottom of the steps lurched to life. Two beams of light reached out to the clouds hanging over a rapidly dimming sky.

Natasha removed her employee ID from her sparkling clutch purse and flashed it to the guard. His eyes lingered on her alluring smile just long enough for Natasha to toss her knife up over the metal detector and slip it easily back beneath the slip in her dress.

Continuing into the Galleria's splendid entrance hall, she spotted István standing with Adrienn and some of her other coworkers, tablet computer in hand.

"_And the catering company? I want an update,_" István was saying.

"_They were able to find another refrigerated truck. They'll be back on schedule in twenty minutes_."

"_Make it fifteen_," he replied, dragging his finger over the tablet screen. Szabo stopped as his eyes caught a flicker of red. "_My my, Miss Welch, I must say, you look absolutely stunning_." He took Natasha's hand and kissed it.

"_Why thank you, Sir_," Natasha replied, forcing her cheeks to blush. "_I should say the same to you."_

István straightened the black silk jacket of his tuxedo. "_If only that were true_," he smiled. Under his slicked-back hair and cocky grin, he very clearly thought it was. "_Well now, back to work. Less than two hours to go!_"

István dismissed them and the little circle scattered to the click of ladies' heels and the thunk of gentlemen's dress shoes.

"_The event planners can handle the last-minute set-up_," said Adrienn, "_but István wants us to personally inspect every piece in the new collection. What he thinks has happened since yesterday is beyond me, but he seems on edge tonight. Then again, who wouldn't be with half the city scheduled to attend your party? Anyway, do you want to take the sculptures or the paintings?_"

"_I'll take the wall_," said Natasha, eyeing the canvases and gilded frames suspended over the towering granite walls in the next room. She turned to in the opposite direction. "_Just give me one second, I want to grab something from my office_."

"_I wouldn't if I were you_."

"_Why?_"

"_You missed it, but István asked us all to stay on the gallery floor. Something about it being easier for the security team if no one is running around in the back halls. Apparently they're really low on security guys tonigh_t," Adrienn explained.

"_Is that so_?" said Natasha as she followed Adrienn through the open archway and into the main atrium of the Galleria. István really had outdone himself. The atrium glittered magnificently. It looked less like an art gallery than a ballroom. Ribbed columns sunk part way into the walls stretch up the full four stories of the building, ending in a cluster of skylights on the ceiling. The pieces normally on display here had been moved to various other rooms, leaving space for István's new collection. Canvases sat high on the granite walls. Even more hung from steel cables that vanished in the bath of light illuminating all the paintings and the sculptures strewn on pedestals around the floor. Even the freshly polished parquet glimmered in anticipation of the party.

Since the day before, István had added the final touches to his gala - a stage with a sleek glass podium for the speech Natasha had already heard six times through, a small army of round tables draped in white cloths and set with crystal and china, and a bar István had had custom built along the back wall, its shelves filled with full glass liquor bottles.

Natasha started on one side of the semi-circular room and began inspecting the paintings she had helped collect. After a few, she stepped beside on of the decorative potted ferns and scanned around her, returning her eyes quickly to the wall of art. Natasha placed a hand beside her mouth, to shield the view of her lips. "Sebastian, did you hear that?"

"Only bits and pieces," Clint's voice crackled back after a moment. "Hang on let me get farther away from the guys. . . Okay, what's up?"

"Everywhere but the atrium and entrance hall are off-limits to _everyone _tonight, including me."

"Is that going to be a problem?"

"I can't grab the gun I've got stashed in my office, but other than that, I'm not worried about it. I'm more interested in why."

"So whatever's happening tonight, it involves one or more placed inside the gallery. . . but that doesn't exactly help us narrow it down," said Clint.

"Adrienn also mentioned that the security detail was short-staffed tonight."

"That's not true. András has his entire crew here tonight."

"But you might be one of the only ones actually working gala security."

Three hours later, and the gala was in full swing. The limousines had come and gone from the Galleria's circular drive, and now Budapest's most important citizens gathered inside. Men in tuxedos and women in evening gowns perused the gallery floor, pausing to admire this work or that, praising István's exquisite collection. Drinks flowed from the bar, and waiters drifted through the chattering crowd peddling finger food and glasses of champagne. With dinner now over, a fleet of busboys packed up the tables and slid them out of sight. Guests filtered into the empty space, converting the bare parquet into a dance floor and swinging their hips to the big band music blaring out of trumpets and saxophones in the corner.

"Sounds like I'm missing quite a party," said Clint as he patrolled the perimeter of the huge rectangular building.

"I must say, István did a nice job putting this together."

"All the better to distract everyone."

"But distract them from what?" Natasha replied. She worked her way around the floor, always keeping an eye on István. "Any indication of what exactly is going down tonight?"

"Not yet."

Natasha crossed paths with Adrienn and several of her other colleagues and stopped to talk to them. Eventually she found herself standing in the crowd gathered around the edge of the dance floor. Her hips swayed ever so slightly to the music.

"I wish you were here to dance with me," she said, hiding her lips behind a full champaign flute.

"I know. I'm sorry. It looks like fun. What is this one, a foxtrot?"

Natasha glanced quickly around the cavernous room. "Where the hell are you? The band's pretty loud, but there's no way you can hear them from outside."

"I can't hear anything," Clint said. "Look up."

Natasha obeyed and saw the skylights above. The bright gallery lights reflected against the dark sky, rendering everything beyond the panes of glass invisible. "Seriously? You're up there? Don't you have a job to do?"

"I convinced my boss that someone needed to check the roof. I can see the whole room from here. I'll even tell you how many fingers you're holding up."

Natasha held up one particular finger and shot a glance at the apparently empty ceiling.

"Tasha, that's not nice," Clint chided. He scanned the domed atrium roof and looked down again at the tiny figures milling around below. "I really do wish I was down there. Right. Left. Right-Left. Quarter turn . . ." Clint said, humming a little to a made-up rhythm. Natasha laughed into the microphone. "What did I do?"

"That's a quickstep, not a foxtrot," she chuckled, "And you're dancing the girl part."

"You'll just need to come up here and lead me then."

"If only I could," said Natasha. "How does the city look tonight?"

"I've seen better. If we can't dance, how about a toast?"

"András lets you drink on the job? No wonder he needed extra security personal."

"You've already got the glass in your hand, what's the harm?"

Natasha shrugged and shook her head. "Alright fine. What do you want to toast so badly?"

"Fate."

"I don't believe in fate, and neither do you."

"No, but I believe that if one of a million things had been the slightest bit different, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

Natasha didn't get a chance to respond. A hand gently touched her shoulder. "_May I have this dance?"_ said István.

"_It would be my pleasure,_" Natasha replied. She took Szabo's outstretched hand and followed him onto the dance floor. He led Natasha in a slow waltz.

"I'd say pretend that was me," Clint said through the earpiece, "but on second thought, please, please don't."

_"The gala is going well don't you think?"_ said Szabo as they glided around the floor.

_"It's perfect. You did an excellent job."_

_"The credit belongs, in part, to you. I was incredibly fortunate to stumble across you when I did."_

_"Lucky indeed. The universe has a funny way of working things out."_

_"You believe in fate, do you Miss Welch?"_

_"Before I arrived here I didn't, but now . . ."_

The song ended and applause rose up for the band.

_"Thank you for the dance,"_ said István, giving a slight bow. _"Now I'll return you to your fiancé."_

_"Actually he's not here tonight. He got called into work at the last minute."_

_"In that case let me buy you a drink. I insist."_

Natasha followed István to the bar, and accepted a martini glass. István turned and tapped the shoulder of the man leaning on the bar beside him.

_"Ah," _he said, _"speaking of fate." _István switched over to English. "Charles, it's a pleasure to see you. I'm so pleased you could come."

The other man pushed his spectacles up on his rounded nose. "A wonderful gala, simply splendid."

"Do forgive me, Miss Welch. This is Charles Deniaud, head of Davenport Gates & Monroe Auction House."

Natasha froze. She could barely keep the panic from flashing across her face.

"But then of course you two should already be acquainted. You left your job at Davenport Gates & Monroe to come work for me, didn't you Charlotte?"

"My goodness, my mistake," said Charles, "I know all of my employees personally, and I must be getting older if I can't remember a face as pretty as yours."

István placed an arm around Natasha's shoulder, gripping her much tighter than he appeared. Mr. Deniaud bid them goodbye and disappeared into the crowd. István leaned close into Natasha's ear, his teeth coming so close to her skin that she could feel his hot breath on her neck.

"But he's not mistaken is he, my dear? You never did work for Davenport Gates & Monroe."

A soft click echoed over the music, and Natasha felt the cold metal barrel of a gun press into her spine.


	17. Life of the Party

**A/N: Sorry for the delay! This chapter just did not want to happen. I hope it's easier to read than it was for me to write!**

Natasha remained perfectly still as the gun pressed between her shoulder blades. The band finished their next piece and she joined in the clapping, the motion hiding her shaking hands as she struggled to swallow the knot of panic growing in her chest. What had just happened? Her cover was blown and she hadn't even seen it coming. When had István found out she was not Charlotte Welch. And more importantly, how?

"Put on your best smile and walk to the staircase," István instructed, still keeping his free arm wrapped around her shoulder. They moved together through the crowd, blending in with every other couple in attendance.

Natasha scanned the party, trying to take in as much information as possible in an attempt to make up for her previous mistake. Was she really that oblivious? Had she been so distracted with Clint that she hadn't seen this coming?

She wanted to glance up at Clint to try and warn him. Only hearing fragments of István's orders, he might not have caught on to what just happened. She kept her eyes focused on the wall before her, hoping not to give way Clint's position by looking up at the skylight. Instead she took the hand hanging loosely by her thigh and slowly shaped her fingers into military hands signals.

Halfway through her message, István slid his hand off her shoulder and down her arm, pressing Natasha's palm firmly against her leg. "Let's have none of that."

They turned out of the main atrium and crossed the entrance hall to the stairwell. The door swung shut behind them and István removed his hand, giving Natasha a little shove in front of him.

"I must say, Miss Welch, for an innocent art buyer, you are quite calm at gunpoint."

"Funny, for an innocent gallery owner you seem pretty comfortable holding a gun."

A radio buzzed to life with a click of static and István grabbed the clunky plastic box from its belt clip.

"_Sir_?" said a voice.

"_Do it_," István replied.

A moment later, a sharp breath and then a low groan echoed in Natasha's ear. _Clint._

"Well," said Szabo as he plucked the communicator from her ear. "I suppose you won't be needing this anymore." He threw it to the floor and ground the little electronic components into the concrete with a soft crunch.

Two more guards met them on the second floor, grabbed Natasha by the arms and dragged her into the storage room. István dragged a dusty metal chair from the corner and placed it in the center of the floor. The two thugs threw Natasha in the chair, binding her hands behind it. They stepped back, standing firmly on either side of István with their hands clasped behind their backs.

István stepped up to her. "Imagine my surprise when the security team was reviewing the photographic guest list this afternoon, and one of them identified _you_ as the fiancé of one of my brother's guards. You dined at _Rózsambimbó_ together."

"My fiancé is a banker." _And that shouldn't be a problem,_ Natasha though. _Regardless of what's going on between Clint and I, our covers were designed to be a couple._

"Of course, of course," István continued. "That alone might raise a few eyebrows, nothing more."

_Then what the hell happened?_

"But tell me, if your believe your fiancé is a banker, why were you staring up at the skylights just where he was standing on the roof? Yes, Dear, I noticed. Then I sent my guards to search your office, and they found this." He waved a finger and one of the guards grabbed a small wooden picture frame off the shelving and handed it to Szabo. Natasha recognized it immediately as the picture of her and Clint in the park.

István removed the clips holding the frame back in place. He plucked the photo out and let the wood and glass crash to the floor. He showed Natasha the note scrawled across the back in black pen, then read aloud: " 'Tasha - I told you so, love Clint.' Now tell me miss Welch, what do you make of that?"

Natasha couldn't keep her eyes from going wide. She could feel her quickening pulse pounding against the course ropes binding her wrists. No. How had he been stupid enough to write that? How had she been stupid enough to keep it at her desk?

_No, Clint,_ she thought, _I told _you. _I told you we'd get distracted; I told you we'd start making mistakes. _As much as she tried to deny it, she could feel their nice, stable facade of a life starting to slip away beneath her feet.

"I could hardly believe what I was seeing, so I orchestrated that little stunt with Mr. Deniaud as a final bit of proof." István leaned in close to Natasha's face. "And so, Natasha is it? You're going to tell me exactly what it is you're looking for."

Natasha met István's eyes and glared at him, staying silent.

"Poor choice." Szabo waved again and the two guards sprung to life and rushed toward Natasha. They each forcefully took one of her arms and dragged her backward, knocking the chair over with a sharp clatter. The thugs pinned her forcefully against the nearest of the massive shelving units. They wrenched her arms above her head and one held her still as other untied the rope and bound her to one of the vertical beams supporting the shelving. One of the thugs removed Natasha's stilettos. The loss of height dragged her down, and pain clawed at her shoulders as her feet struggled to reach the cold concrete floor.

István took her knife out of its holster and waved at the guards. "_You're dismissed._ _Get back to the others."_

"Now," said István, twirling the knife in his fingers. "Let's try this again."

Clint awoke to the musty scent of burlap draped over his face. He pinched his eyebrows together trying to banish the throbbing pain in his skull. He had been on he roof of the Galleria, talking to Natasha, and then nothing.

Before he tried to open his eyes, Clint focused on his ears. Over the whirring of a furnace, he could hear the faintest hum of music drifting down from above. _I must still be at the Galleria,_ he thought, _in the basement._

New sounds caught his attention. A door closing. Footsteps.

Suddenly a hand yanked the covering off of his head and Clint squinted, trying to keep the light out. His eyelids fluttered open as he slowly adjusted to the bright bulb hanging from a metal housing overhead.

Clint looked around. He sat zip-tied to a chair in a small room empty except for the dented table before him. Based on the look of the bare sheetrock walls, the Szabo brother had constructed it specifically for times like this.

"I hope you like what we've done with the place," said a slimy voice from behind him. Clint grimaced as Zoltán Varga circled the table and came to a stop in front of him.

"My favorite person in the world," Clint coughed. "I can't think of anyone I'd rather see less right now."

Varga smiled. "And that was when we were working together. Just think of how much you'll like me now that you're in my way."

"Not as much as you'll dislike me when I'm in yours," said Clint.

"So arrogant. You still think you're a hotshot."

"Literally."

"Well don't worry. I can fix that. Clint, is it?"

_That's not a good sign._

"Yes," said Varga, "we know who you are."

"No you don't."

"Your girlfriend told us everything."

"Who?" Zoltán's palm came down hard on Clint's face, but he shook his head. "No she didn't."

"I knew there was something off about you, right from the start."

"I know. It's that I'm too good-looking, right?"

Varga slapped the other side of Clint's face. "Enough! No more games. When you came in spinning that little story to András, I thought I was going to get my chance right then and there. As it turns out, the wait has made this moment so much sweeter."

"Are you hitting on me?" said Clint. "I mean, that's completely okay if you are. I respect -"

Varga grabbed onto Clint's hair and slammed his face into the table. "I am going to kill you," Zoltán spat in Clint's ear. "I am going to kill you in a duel -"

"Wait, really, a duel?" Clint muttered against the grimy table surface. Varga ground his head farther into the metal.

"I am going to cut you down of your pedestal, and watch you fall. But first I need some information." Zoltán took out a knife and cut one of Clint's hands free from the chair. Immediately, he grabbed Clint's hand and slammed it against the table, grabbing onto one of his fingers and wrenching it backward. Clint turned away, and Varga wrenched his finger farther.

Clint shook his head. "You're going to have to do better than that, Varga."

"It is not in your interest to challenge me. But if you insist . . ."

To Clint's surprise, Varga released the tension on his hand. Zoltán pulled out his phone and opened a window with his free hand. He tossed the phone on the table with a clatter and Clint looked at the screen. It showed the feed from what looked like a security camera, mounted high up in a room Clint had never seen before. The figures were small, but Clint could easily make out Natasha's brilliant red dress as she stood tied to the massive metal shelving unit. Her head rocked to the side as a figure he assumed to be István Szabo slapped her.

Varga smiled. "You're girlfriend will sing like a canary."

"Actually she can. She doesn't do it much anymore, and I can never understand what she's saying but -" Clint cut off as Zoltán grabbed his free wrist and twisted it, jerking his elbow then his shoulder painfully out of place.

"Not so talkative now, huh? What no snappy comments about she's just your partner she's not . . ." Varga stopped. He released the pressure on Clint's joints enough that he could draw a deeper breath again. The wickedest smile yet crept over Zoltán's stringy face. "Unless she actually is. Oh that is precious. She actually is your girlfriend."

"What's it to you, Varga?"

"Besides leverage and pure amusement?" He clicked his tongue at Clint. "Tsk, tsk, not a smart move Agent . . . you didn't say."

"No, I didn't." Clint clenched his teeth as Varga wrenched his arm again.

"And here I thought you were some sort of professional."

"I care about my partner. Nothing new about that, nothing wrong with it."

"Except now I'm going to use your fragile little schoolboy heart to break you. Or her."

"Why do you people all associate love with childhood? I didn't have my first crush until I was fifteen. Granted there weren't a lot of beard-free options in the circus."

"I'm still going to kill you. And the more you talk, the slower your death is becoming."

"Are we still dueling at high noon? Because I don't see how those two can both happen."

Varga ignored him and pulled out his radio.

"István, are you there?"

"I'm in the middle of something Varga," his gruff voice crackled back.

"So am I. It seems out two little lovebirds are, well just that."

István raised an eyebrow at Natasha. "It that so?"

"Anything you'd like to say?" Varga asked, shoving the radio up to Clint's mouth.

"Hey, Tasha, how you doin?"

"Never better Honeybear," she replied.

Clint let Zoltán and István continue to taunt them. As long as they were distracted and not hurting them, he didn't much care what they said. Natasha had called him Honeybear. Natasha, who's first rule of relationships was no pet names, called him Honeybear. That wasn't a good sign. Time to get out of here.

As Varga talked over the radio, Clint slowly lowered his arm back behind the chair, holding it right where it had been tied.

A few minutes later, István's voice crackled in over the radio again. "Varga, we're running out of time. I want you to supervise transportation."

"On my way," he relied. Zoltán clipped the radio back on his belt loop and turned to Clint. "I'll be back for you."

"No, actually, you won't." Clint took the hand Varga had forgotten he never retied and grabbed Varga's shirt. The zip-tie dug into his wrist as Clint swung the hand still tied to the chair up and over Varga's head. The metal chair crashed down on his head, and Varga crumpled to the ground.

Clint knelt down and retrieved Varga's firearm and radio. With the knife, he cut his now bleeding wrist away from the plastic tie. Finding and extra tie-wrap in the corner, of the room, Clint tied Zoltán to the table and then took off out of the room to find Natasha.


	18. Lynchpin

**A/N: Hey everybody! I am SO sorry it's been so long! Here you go:**

Clint ran through the dim gallery basement until he came to the nearest stairway. As he touched the handle, he stopped. Footsteps echoed through the stairwell, growing louder as someone approached. Clint ducked away behind some cobweb-covered crates. As he crouched there, the door swung open, casting a beam of light across the floor. Four men entered the basement, guards that Clint recognized from András' inner circle. One with a long ponytail, the leader, barked orders Clint couldn't understand. Two men branched off deeper into the basement, and the others headed to Varga's makeshift interrogation room. Time to get out of there.

Clint crept out from his hiding spot and carefully slipped through the closing door. As he raced up the staircase, shouts rose from the basement. The door opened again, and slammed shut as three furious pairs of boots joined him on the stairs. Clint called up the building blueprints in his mind, searching for a room that would fit the video Varga had showed him. István held Natasha in a high-ceilinged room that clearly wasn't part of the gallery displays. Only two rooms met that description, and Clint decided to start with the closer one, on the second floor.

He exited the stairwell and moved carefully through the darkened gallery. He wove around pedestals holding Roman busts and abstract sculptures until he came to the storage room door. Clint looked carefully through the narrow reenforced window set into the door. Natasha hung from the shelves inside, sparkling in her fiery dress, and István stood in front of her. If he burst in now, Szabo would still have the upper hand. He needed a distraction.

Clint grabbed the radio he had taken from Zoltán and hoped it was still on Varga and Szabo's private channel. "Good afternoon ladies and gentleman," he said into the radio. "We are experiencing some minor turbulence, so please fasten your seat belts and remain seated until further instruction."

"What the hell?" Szabo shouted as he ripped his own radio from his waist. "Varga! Varga come in!"

"He's not available. Can I take a message?"

István looked around frantically, expecting to see Clint somewhere in the room.

Natasha shook her head. "At least give him _some_ credit, István. He's smarter than that."

István lowered the radio and moved in even closer to Natasha, grabbing a clump of her hair. His breath stank as he glared into her eyes. Natasha curled her lips into a half-smile. She placed her bare feet on the metal shelving, lifting enough weight from her shoulders that she could reposition her arms.

With the strain no longer on her shoulders, Natasha hoisted herself up with her forearms. Before Szabo could move, Natasha had her long slender legs wrapped around his neck. She spun him around and slid her calf along his throat, then tucked her foot beneath her opposite kneecap and clamped down. Szabo quickly crumpled to the floor.

"Wow," Clint said as he hurried into the room and over to her. "That's not exactly what I had in mind."

"It worked didn't it? Now come on, cut me loose."

Clint searched István's unconscious body until he found Natasha's confiscated knife. He cut the rope around her wrists and she dropped down to the ground. Natasha grimaced as she rubbed her shoulder muscles. "How about that dance now?" he said as he helped her rub out her shoulders.

"Very funny," she replied and brushed his hands away. "We have to get to the atrium right away Follow me." She took István's gun and radio and hurried out the door, scanning the area before she crept out into the museum proper. "There's a balcony that looks over the gala. This way."

"Tasha, what did you find out from Szabo?"

"I'll explain as we go."

Twenty minutes earlier:

"Now," said István, twirling the knife in his fingers. "Let's try this again." He ran the flat part of the blade against her jawbone. The cool metal slipped past her cheek as she turned her head away, cowering ever so slightly from him. "That's better. Now let's start with something simple. You're name."

Natasha didn't reply. She turned her head away as far as she could, trying to hide from Szabo. István took the flat knife and jerked her face back toward him.

"I wouldn't if I were you," said Szabo. "Natasha, Natasha," he muttered to himself. "You know, my dear, just before you came we had a visitor. He went by the name Vincent Abano, but you and I both know that's not quite right. We never did learn his real name; the sneaky little rat got away. I do know, however, where he scurried off to. Natasha darling, have you ever heard of S.H.I.E.L.D.?" Natasha didn't flinch. "Yes, yes I know all about it. An "international peace-keeping organization" they call themselves. All they bring is war."

"And you don't?" said Natasha.

"My brothers and I, of blood or ideology, only bring peace, peace from the plague of government overrunning this country. Soon our people will be free from the tyranny, free from the pain of war! Do excuse me. You see, the address you so carefully edited for me is not the only speech I've made this evening. But enough about me. Based on Mr. Abano's visit and the timing of your arrival, I can only assume that you and your partner slithered out of the same rat's nest. I have to wonder, then, if you might be the infamous Black Widow." Natasha didn't meet his gaze. Szabo smiled. "Then let me ask you this, Agent Romanoff: don't you bring war as as well?"

Natasha stopped fighting, let her body hang limp. She let Szabo see hints of her fear.

"Not so much fun without a mask to hide behind, is it?" István stroked her cheek. "I must say, though, your beauty does live up to the legend."

"What do you want from me?"

"It's simple really," said István. "What do you know?"

"I don't know anything," Natasha replied, and Szabo's hand came down hard on her face.

"I thought you'd be smarter than that, Agent Romanoff." He shook his head. "I do wish you were going to be around to see me get what I want. I want you to see the columns of smoke obscuring the sky, the panic in the streets. I wish I could let you live with the guilt of knowing you were so close to stopping us. At least that's what you'd tell yourself. This operation is far to delicate to allow to the two of you to stop it. That's the price you pay I suppose. I'll be okay knowing the rest of the city will live with the same guilt."

"Why are you doing this?"

"The world is sick, Agent Romanoff. Sick with violence, sick with blood."

"How do you and your little group plan to make it any better?"

"A little something I learned when my father died: the sickness is also the cure." István checked his watch. "How inconsiderate of me; I've been doing all the talking. Unfortunately I'm late for an appointment, so we're going to have to speed things up."

Szabo pulled down hard on Natasha's shoulder and she gritted her teeth in pain.

"Now tell me again -" he began, but the crackle of the radio cut him off.

"István, are you there?"

"I'm in the middle of something Varga," Szabo replied hastily.

"So am I. It seems our two little lovebirds are, well just that."

István raised an eyebrow at Natasha. "It that so?"

"Anything you'd like to say?" Varga asked and Clint's voice crackled.

"Hey, Tasha, how you doin?"

"Never better Honeybear," she replied tensely as her own weight ripped at her shoulders.

"Sorry Tasha, I'm going to need your help decoding that one," Clint whispered when she'd finished relaying the highlights of her interrogation with Szabo.

"It means we were missing a piece of the puzzle," Natasha replied as they crept slowly along the walls of the dark second floor display rooms. "Szabo said 'columns of smoke,' plural, which means they're building more than one bomb. He also used the phrase 'the sickness is also the cure' and related it to his fight against violence, but also to his father's death."

Clint snapped his fingers and the sound reverberated throughout the room. Natasha shushed him, but he kept talking. "That makes so much more sense. This whole scheme has been bugging me. I know we said that the Szabo boys should be able to come up with something a little more creative, but also, a nuclear attack didn't make sense. Warheads are used by states. Their function is intimidation as much as destruction. If the TPE came out as said they had a warhead, they would either have to use it and lose their leverage, or they'd have to stall and we, or the Hungarian government, would find and dismantle it. They can set off smaller bombs one by one until their demands are met. But the use of radioactive material really only leave one possibility."

Natasha nodded solemnly. "Dirty bombs. The blast of the conventional explosives will take more lives, but the radiation the bomb disperses will cause the real panic, what he called the 'panic in the streets.' I don't remember Szabo's father's cause of death, but I'd bet you it was cancer."

"Of course," said Clint. "Radiation is both a cause and a treatment for cancer. A string of dirty bombs certainly will cause a panic. Not to mention distract government resources with containment and cleanup."

Natasha turned a corner and waited for Clint to follow. She had led them to the doorway leading out to the balcony which overlooked the atrium and the gala floor. Music blared up from the band, and she cleaned in close to whisper. "Clint, there's more. Szabo said the whole city will have to live with the guilt of not stoping the attacks, which means the TPE will make a public treat, and what better venue than the gala."

They leaned out the doorway to see two of András' guards posted along the railing. All of a sudden, the lights went out with a thunk. The band stopped playing and a nervous quiet fell over the crowd.

_So that is why those thugs who chased me left one of their men in the basement, _Clint though, _to access the power relays._ He grabbed onto Natasha's shoulder in the darkness and said,"I guess they're making their public statement right now."


	19. Dancing in the Dark

**A/N: Hi everyone. I know I've been absolutely awful about updating these past few weeks (cough cough, months). The semester ends next week, and after that I'll have no excuse not to write more. I'm so sorry I've fallen so behind. Also, it's entertaining to read about fictional terrorists and superheroes, but please keep the people of Boston, and all those world-wide who have been affected by terrorist activities in your thoughts.**

**Anyway. . . without further ado:**

A nervous murmur rose up in the crowd as the party guests stood frozen in the blackness. On the second floor, Natasha pressed close to the cool stone column guarding the doorway to the balcony. She could feel the pressure in Clint's grip on her shoulder. He hated the dark. He didn't fear it, for a fear of the dark is a fear of the unknown. They lived in the unknown, in a shadow world few people even know exists. No, what bothered Clint was that in the dark he lost his edge. The angles, the sight lines, the perception that gave him his name, it all vanished. In the solid blackness, he wasn't Hawkeye. He was just a solider.

Natasha reached up and squeezed his hand, as if she knew the thoughts running through his mind. Maybe she did. She might have even preferred the dark, the ambiguity, the way she could fade into the blackness. "Two guards on the balcony. Let's get them before they have a chance to spot us," said Natasha in a whisper so soft that Clint could barely hear her inches away.

Knowing he couldn't do the same, he nodded, hoping Natasha would feel the tiny shift in his motion. She gave his hand another squeeze in reply.

Natasha stood up slowly, running her free hand along the cool groove of the stone column. She took Clint's hand away from her shoulder and held it in her own. Natasha closed her eyes; they were no use now. She let her other senses take over. Every inch of her skin became hypersensitive. Her fingers registered the tiny grooves left in the column, the faintest trace of sweat on Clint's palm. Her ears pricked up, attuning themselves to the her heartbeat and the sound of Clint's breathing in the darkness.

She pulled on Clint's hand and he obeyed, rising slowly to join her. He let her lead him slowly out into the darkness. Each step made no noise, each footfall landed inaudibly on the tile floor. Clint felt like he was a ghost. Natasha felt safe.

A confused murmur began to rise from the crowd as Clint and Natasha made their way farther onto the balcony. Eyes still closed, Natasha stopped moving. She could feel the guard in front of her. Enough years of martial arts training had taught her as much. With enough practice great fighters acquire a proximity sense, the ability to sense their opponent's presence. Natasha had learned quicker than most. She could feel him, feel the energy given off by his body, hear his breath, feel his heartbeat.

Natasha used her arms to guide Clint up beside her, leading him as far from her as she could without loosing contact with him. From what she'd managed to glimpse before the lights went out, he would be right behind the other guard.

Before they could move to strike their targets in the dark, Natasha tensed. Clint could feel her arm go stiff in his palm. Something was wrong. Someone was . . .

The emergency lights, set every few feet in a track along the floor, flickered to life. Their dim bluish glow cast six shadows across the balcony. There. Even Clint could feel the body behind him, hear the clip of his shoes, the raspy drawl of his breath. The click of his gun.

A second later, the thud of another light echoed around the atrium. Horrified shouts and whispers cascaded through the crowd as the spotlights that had illuminated the István's speech earlier that evening sprang to life again.

The wide beams cut through the blackness, making the stage glow once more with pools of light. The upper beam had been repositioned to shine on the wall above the platform. As sheet of plastic like a projector transparency or a theater gel had been thrown across the spotlight, projecting a stylized image of a red hand over the granite and canvases behind it. The white silhouette of a long-tailed demon cut through the center of the palm. Natasha couldn't help but shake she head. Many people in the crowd probably though the image was a Satan, but István was too clever for that. Natasha recognized the figure as Minos, the demon who determines to which circle of hell each sinner belongs in Dante's _Inferno. Someone's feeling self-righteous today, _Natasha thought as she glimpsed the scene unfolding on the floor.

The rest of the lights pooled on the stage illuminating the scene that held the guests in panicked attention. A figure stood on stage before the podium. The black knit of a ski mask obscured all but his eyes and mouth. The man had dragged another up onto the podium, held there at gunpoint. His hostage: István Szabo.

Clint's fist tightened by his side. István's disheveled hair and rumpled tie fit perfectly with his portrayal of an unsuspecting hostage, but Clint knew how he really received those marks. It angered him to think that he and Natasha had actually helped Szabo along by saving him five minutes in front of the mirror. His thugs must have roused him just in time for Szabo to appear in this little stunt. _Very clever, _he thought. _Who will suspect him now?_

The scene on the ground flooded Clint and Natasha's eyes for the second the lights turned on, then they quickly diverted their attention to the problem at hand. Two guards in front, two behind. Luckily for them, all four were still processing the peculiar scenario at hand. Their instant of hesitation gave Clint and Natasha time to strike. Clint swung around to face the bulky man behind him, wrenching his arm away and throwing a punch to his face. Natasha dropped down out of range of her attacker's blow, then swept her leg in a wide circle, knocking him down to the floor. Then her second opponent, the guard who had been standing in front, jumped on her back, yanking her sore shoulders back and clamping her arms by her sides.

"_Ladies and Gentleman,"_ the masked man's voice rang out over the microphone. "_This is quite a party, isn't it? I almost feel bad cutting it short. Almost. You see, as you people mill about in your gowns and tuxedos, swirling your wine and musing at this useless artwork, the world is screaming trying to teach you a lesson. All the chaos, the pain, the suffering, it's not enough to make you think, enough to make you care. You are perfectly content to relegate the ills of this world onto paint and canvas, fun to admire for a night and then easily tucked away or hung on a wall for later. You will be content no longer."_

Clint whipped around and drove an elbow at the front guard's nose. The first man charged and Clint threw his leg up in a kick. His dress shoe struck with a dull thwack, sending the man reeling back.

As one guard held Natasha's arms, the other advanced on her. She shot both of her legs out at the approaching figure's chest. The force of the kick sent her backwards and she used the momentum to kick her body up, slamming her captor against the floor. She wriggled from his arms and blocked a punch from the second attacker as she flew to her feet.

Clint dove down on one knee, brushing his ear against the front attacher's him and wrapping his arms around the back of the man's knees. He pulled back, buckling the guard's knees and sending him falling to the ground. Clint landed on top of him and quickly bound up one of the man's arms in a shoulder lock. Before the joint could pop, the second attacker grabbed Clint by the jacket and hauled him away, landing a solid blow to Clint's face as he went.

On the atrium floor, people breathed out horrified whispers as the masked figure pressed his handgun harder against István's temple._"The hand of justice in fast approaching. Are you ready? From what I've seen here tonight, I would say not. Our demands are simple, our goal straightforward. As of tonight, Hungary is on its way to true society, true freedom. Unfortunately, the road to the greatest change is never a painless one. How much you must suffer before you learn, well, my friends, that is up to you."_

The second guard tried frantically to guard his face and chest as Natasha threw jab after jab at him. _Time to end this,_ she thought. As the guard threw a return punch, Natasha slid out of its path and caught the guard's outstretched fist. She pulled him forward and slipped her leg into his path of motion. He crashed down hard and she drove her knee into his stomach. With another strike to the back of the head, he collapsed, unconscious.

Clint blocked a second blow to the head as the second guard ripped him up and spun him away from the man on the floor. Clint planted his feet and pushed into the guard's momentum. Their roles reversed and Clint let him continue spiraling around, then let go so the guard would crash into the other thug scrambling to pull himself off the ground. Both men crashed down. The bottom guard laid still. The top man tried to stand, and Clint rushed forward and slammed the man's head into the balcony's stone banisher.

The last remaining guard charged at Natasha. She let him slide past her, then spun around behind him and slipped her slender arm across his neck. She pulled back, and the guard's bulky form crashed to the ground. She and Clint ducked into the shadows to watch the gala floor.

_"The time for ignorance is long over," _said the masked speaker. _"You have been warned." _The lights cut out again, and when they returned, all traces of the man and the TPE agents were gone. István sat stunned on the edge if the stage. After a moment of stupefied silence, the crowd below erupted into a panic. Gala workers shouted over the noise, attempting to organize the guests and coral them in the atrium until the authorities arrived. The shouts and anxious voices nearly drowned out the chorus of sirens even as a fleet of first responder swarmed to the _Galleria. _The once-dark skylights flashed bright as a helicopter came to hover overhead.

"Well that was interesting," Clint said as they approached the four bodies lying unconscious before them. He and Natasha bent down, searching each guard, confiscating their weapons, ammunition.

Natasha nodded. "The second two guards must have come to take out the first pair during the blackout. The two men stationed here must not have been in on András's plan tonight, and the second team was sent to make it look like the TPE knocked out all security personnel."

"But they weren't expecting the two of us to get in the way," said Clint. He looked through the slots cut in the banister as the crowd changed the tone of their murmurs. Policemen with bullhorns cut through the noise, shouting orders at the crowd. Uniformed officers began waving the patrons toward the door. "Damn," Clint muttered.

"What?"

"Natasha, is the radioactive material still here?"

"I assume so, why?"

"Because what's the first thing the cops are going to do?"

"Sweep the building."

"No," he said. "First they need to evacuate it. If István has anything hidden in here that he doesn't want found, what better way to move it than in the flood of people about to leave this place?"

Natasha snapped her fingers. "At the staff meeting, one of the aids mentioned having to find a replacement truck for the catering company. What do you bet István has the original, and is about to load it with something very sour."

"Tasha, if he wants to leave with the rest of the evacuees. . ."

"Then they might already be on their way out into the city."

"Well then we'd better hurry." With one last look toward the gallery floor, they turned and sprinted back into the gallery.


	20. Combat Boots

**A/N: Well, Ironman 3 was amazing, finals are over and I've now read all 116 pages of the Memos from Fury tumblr page. It's been a decent week in Nerdville. Once again, thanks for your patience . . . **

Clint and Natasha scrambled farther into the dimly lit rooms of the gallery. The blare of sirens and shouts of panicked guests faded into background noise as they made their way away from the atrium.

"Do you buy it?" said Clint at they passed through the Contemporary Japanese collection.

"What do you mean?"

"You spent plenty of time with István and he's clearly the PR guy for the group. Do you buy his spiel? Ignorance and justice and what not?"

"István certainly does have a flare for the dramatic. And, I don't know, maybe he believes it on some level. But I doubt any kind of grand vision is what's driving the TPE's plot. They wanted the public's attention, now they have it."

Clint nodded. "They've "justified" their cause, and how they're free to pursue their actual goals. Money, fame, power, you know, the usual."

"To make a statement, for revenger, as a warning, the list goes on."

"So how do we stop them?"

"Way ahead of you," said Natasha. She swung around one last corner and pressed her back flush to the door of a grimy stairwell. Gun draw, Natasha pushed it open and rushed into the stairwell. "Clear," she called. Clint scanned the gallery room letting his handgun follow his gaze. Satisfied they hadn't been spotted, he joined her.

"This is the service stairwell. It should lead directly to the loading bay," said Natasha as they scurried down the stairs.

"I can tell," Clint replied, crinkling his nose at the noxious smells of rubber and furnace oil filling the space. "Are you sure that's such a good idea though? If I'm remembering the blueprints correctly, there is literally no barrier between this staircase and where we're assuming there is a mass of heavily armed thugs."

"So?"

"Just saying."

"We're running out of time, Hawkeye. We don't have much of a choice."

Clint and Natasha quieted as the reached the bottom of the staircase and took their places on opposite sides of the door. Natasha waived several signals with her hand, and Clint nodded. Slowly, carefully, he pried the door open, enough to get a glimpse of the room beyond.

"What do you see?" said Natasha.

Clint darted his eyes around the loading bay, taking in as much detail as they could. The large concrete room. Empty wooden palettes in the corner. A worn forklift with peeling blue paint. Two hand trucks waiting by a wall. The ribbed metal door rolled up to the ceiling. The catering truck sitting outside, backed up to the cement platform jutting out from the loading bay.

"Twelve men. Three outside smoking by the truck. The other nine are waiting inside. No sign of any container that might be the material."

"They're waiting for orders," said Natasha. "Good. It means we didn't miss - " Natasha paused at the muffled whir of a motor. The stairs shook ever so slightly. "What is that?"

"This is the service staircase right? It services the freight elevator, which should be -" Clint glanced around at the bland cinderblock walls, trying to get his bearings, "- right behind this wall."

Natasha pressed her ear to the cold off-white paint. She could hear the creak of metal and groan of cables as the mechanisms worked to move the giant freight elevator. She looked at Clint. "Up or down?"

Clint pressed his eye back to the crack in the door. "I can't tell. Let me just -" He pressed his fingertips to the door and pressed, opening the door slightly more. Not quite there. Clint took a breath and pressed a little harder. Suddenly, an awful squeak rang out from the hinges, reverberating loudly around the dense concrete room. Clint managed to add two new details to his observations of the loading bay: the "up" arrow on the elevator illuminated with soft orange light, and the narrow beady eyes of one of András's thugs staring directly at him.

Clint grabbed the handle and dragged the door shut hard. Several bullets pinged against its steel surface and shouts rose on the other side. "We're made."

"Really, I couldn't tell."

"The elevator's headed up."

"Presumably to the third floor to retrieve the radioactive material from the restoration room."

Clint leaned backward, bracing one foot on the wall as he fought to keep András's guards from ripping the door open. The metal handle dug into his palms. "What's the plan?"

Natasha raised her weapon. "I buy you time, you buy me time."

Clint nodded. He let go of the door handle and the mass of brawny hands on the other side ripped it open so hard that the steel door crashed into the wall in sat in, taking a few finger bones with it. Natasha opened fire and the remaining guards scattered for cover. Several dropped on their way.

Natasha pulled the trigger again and the gun clicked futilely. Without thinking, her reflexes dropped the empty magazine and reached for another. She didn't find it. Clint had taken the extra ammunition clips because they were to bulky to fit in the holster beneath her dress. "Now!" she shouted.

Pressed into the tiny corner behind the door to avoid the gunfire, Clint used the few seconds the guards took to emerge from behind palettes and walls to dart forward and slam the door shut. "See you soon," Natasha called as she disappeared up the stairs.

Clint grabbed on to the end of the round metal railing paralleling the stairs. His dress shoes scraped for traction as he balanced on the rail. He seriously wished he has screwed the dress code and worn his combat boots. It was turning out to be that kind of party.

As the door burst open, Clint launched himself up and grabbed hold of one of the several pipes running overhead. He wrapped his hands around the largest, a thick pipe wrapped in white insulating cloth. As he hoisted his body on top, he fought not to break into a coughing fit. His movements kicked up a cloud of dust that must have been building up there for years. He blinked furiously, trying to clear the dust from his eyes. Through his watery vision, Clint watched the remaining guards burst through the door. They searched the barren stairwell, shouting furiously at each other.

The guards turned to leave. Clint held his breath above the dusty pipes as he watched them go. Suddenly, one of the men paused. He cocked his head to one side, then pinched the shoulder of his suit jacket and examined his finger. A crooked smile crept across his face as the guard slowly turned his eyes upward.

Clint pulled his limbs as close together as possible as the guard opened fire. The rest quickly followed suit. The pipe pinged with bullets and began to hiss as the rounds punctured it. Clint took as sniff. _Not gas. Must be air conditioning,_ he thought. He quickly ducked his head over the side of the air duct and returned fire.

A bullet grazed by him, and Clint rolled onto the neighboring pipes. _I hope these things can hold me_, he thought as the copper pipes groaned under his weight. More bullets flew, and suddenly Clint felt a scorching heat on his back. _Shit._ Just as he was about to accept that he had been shot in the back, Clint noticed that the heat, though centered at one point on his back, raced in a perfect line down his body. He rolled back onto the air duct and laid down cover fire with he stretched his free hand back to the assortment of copper pipes. His fingers grazed the topmost pipe and he quickly jerked them away with a hiss. Using the sleeve of his jacket, Clint rubbed away the dust. Small red arrows ran across the copper in one direction. _That'll work. _

Clint leaned over the side of the air duct and emptied a clip at the thugs below. They ducked from the wild array of bullets. Clint reached up and clumsily untied his bow tie. He draped the black fabric over the pipe. _Here goes nothing. _He rolled back onto the copper pipes, wincing has he passed over the hot water pipe. With one last round of fire, Clint dropped his gun and tumbled over the edge of the pipe array. He grabbed onto the ends off the bow tie and hoped his weight would drag the pipe down. It didn't.

A thug approached his dangling legs and Clint kicked him hard in the face, shattering his nose. Another came and Clint wrapped his legs around the man's neck and watched him crumple to the floor. _And Natasha wasn't even here to see that,_ he sighed. The remaining guards were regaining their bearings, and, more importantly, re-aiming their firearms. Clint flexed his arms and hauled his body up toward the ceiling. Bullets flew past the space where his legs had been just as his feet touched the pipes. Bracing his shoes on the neighboring pipes, Clint kicked hard. The copper pipe broke free of it's joint with a loud groan. Scalding water gushed from the break, sending the thugs screaming. The two who managed to flee into the loading bay began stripping off their clothing, trying to save themselves from the burning water now locked in the fibers. Clint swung from side to side to gain momentum, intending to swing himself over the pool of water and onto the dry concrete. As he went, the bow tie gave way from heat and wear, and Clint splashed down in the water. He leapt away as fast as he could, and went after the two fleeing guards. Distracted by their own scalding clothes, they didn't even register Clint coming toward them. "Sorry boys," he said as the second man his the concrete with his belt in his hands, "but I _really _didn't want to see that."

As soon as he was through, Clint dried his own hands on his trousers. His red skin still stung from where he'd hit the water. Following the downed thugs' lead, Clint kicked off his shoes and peeled away his sopping sock. The cool damp concrete was welcomed relief on his pink feet. Clint gave one of his dress shoes a vindictive little kick. _Yup. Should have worn my combat boots._


	21. Elevator Music

Clint's voice crackled in over the radio Natasha stole from one of the downed guards. "Hey baby, how you doing?"

She grabbed the clunky plastic box from her hip. "Less than excellent. I've got a team of six on my tail. I was able to divert them away from you, but I had to backtrack to the second floor in order to do it."

"And now? We're running out of time Tasha."

"And now. . ." she trailed off. The six stalky gruff guards appeared behind her. "Well hello boys. I'd love to stay and chat but I'm already late for a date."

Clint shook his head and smirked. _She's even starting to sound like me. _Not that he would ever dare to tell her as much. He drew in a deep breath to refocus his mind and began to survey the loading bay once more. The cables and gears continued to rattle inside the shaft as Clint paced in front of the massive elevator doors. His eyes followed each cable, each exposed strand of colored wiring that raced along the ceiling. Light. Light. Light. Door. Alarm. There it is.

Clint locked on to a series of three grimy metal tubes bracketed to the concrete. They ducked out of the wall by the elevator and ran across just below the ceiling and dipped out of sight on the far wall. _Gotcha. _Clint hurried across the cool floor to the column of pallets stacked haphazardly against the wall. As he ran his hand over the rough pine boards, which wobbled under the pressure. _Easy enough._ Clint raised his leg to wind up for a kick. A solid side kick would send the pallets crashing over. As his foot was about to strike, Clint jerked it away. _Right. No shoes. _He rolled his eyes. "Fine," he puffed, and took a few steps backward. Rubbing his hands together, he took off toward the pallets. Clint barreled into the stack shoulder first. The pile tumbled over with a loud clap. Clint wiggled his shoulder to reset the joint, then tuned his attention to the now-clear wall.

The three pipes reappeared where the pallets had been, ending at a dusty metal control box. The already-loose screws twirled free easily beneath his calloused fingers. Flakes of rust fell to the ground as Clint pried away the faceplate, revealing the wires and relays inside.

He scurried over to the closest unconscious guard and dug through his pockets and holsters. "Come on buddy, give me something I can work with." In a nylon pouch clipped to the man's belt, Clint's fingers closed around a cold metal cylinder. "Flashbang. That'll work. Maybe I'll grab another for the road."

He slipped the grenade from the man's belt and turned it over in his hands. It was a stun grenade, designed to emit a blinding flash and a loud noise. Normally they were non-lethal, but luckily a little boom was all he needed. Clint unclipped the man's radio and hustled back to the wall, prying the plastic housing off as he went. _Man I hope I remember how to do this. _Using his teeth to strip the wires, he carefully wired the radio into the grenade. Sweat beaded on Clint's forehead as he worked as fast as his steady fingers would allow, all the while willing the bomb not to explode in his face. "There we go. No time to test it, but it's going to have to be close enough." Clint twisted the dial that remained on top of the destroyed radio housing. "Let's hope no one's using channel seven."

Clint grabbed his own radio and ran up the staircase.

"Diversion secure" Clint's voice crackled through the radio. "Channel seven."

"Copy that," Natasha replied. She whirled around and struck the last guard in the nose. Blood dripped down his face as he fell to the ground to join his teammates. "All clear here. Heading to the fourth floor."

"Roger that."

Natasha left the guards and sprinted back through the gallery. Her feet took her to the employee staircase that she'd used to often to get to work. Slowing as she neared the door, Natasha crept cautiously into the stairwell then continued her sprint. She braced her arm and hooked it around the end of each railing, using her momentum to swing around the turns as the staircase folded back on itself as it climbed.

She burst out on the fourth floor to find it deserted. Eerily so. The paneled wooden hallways seemed different without the murmur of voices from the offices beyond. The whole floor was silent without the whir of computer fans or the soft tap of fingers on keys.

Natasha hurried down the hall, past István's grand office door, turning her back to the floor-to-ceiling window at the end of the corridor. She caught a glimpse of her own office as she passed. The clear glass panes that formed the front wall were shattered. Shards of glass littered the floor. Her wooden door hung awkwardly, still clinging to its frame on busted hinges. Inside, the whole office had been turned inside out. Papers lay strewn around the room. All the drawers had been ripped from the desk. Even the potted ficus in the corner had been torn from its pot. No wonder István's guards found the note scrawled on the back of the picture. They went through everything. Well, not _everything._

Natasha could feel it tugging at her, the pain of watching the last fragments of Charlotte Welch's life torn to shreds. _No,_ Natasha scolded herself. _No pity, no pain, no looking back. _She huffed a barely audible laugh. _It used to be a lot easier to make myself believe that._

Pushing the thoughts of everything but her next objective from her mind, Natasha continued on. She came to the end of the hall and turned down a smaller corridor to the conference room. _I've never actually seen the elevator on this floor, but there is no way some of the pieces in István's office came up the stairs. _

Natasha dodged the long oval table in the center of the room as she made her way to the far wall. Pushing several rolling chairs out of her way, she cleared a path along the wall. Natasha examined the bright cherry paneling the bordered the room. Her knuckled rapped softly on the wood. She moved down a few feet and tried again. Toward the edges of the wall, the resulting sound became denser, fuller. Natasha smirked. She pulled down the conference room blinds then scoured the center panels for a release mechanism. Her fingers brushed over a tiny notch on the bottom of the polished wood. She dug her fingernails in and the panel popped free with a soft click. Natasha dragged the bulky sheet of wood away, leaning it haphazardly against the conference room table. She dragged away the neighboring panel too, revealing the gleaming elevator doors behind them.

Making an educated guess, Natasha flipped aside a framed painting on the adjacent wall to reveal the elevator controls. She pulled the emergency override lever and the doors opened with a pneumatic hiss. Wedging her fingers in the crack, Natasha gritted her teeth as she manually slid the massive steel doors open. Her high heels dug into the carpet as she pulled. With one last grunt of effort the doors swung open. Natasha checked the small clock displayed on the face of the radio. Her pulse quickened as she realized just how much time she'd lost getting up here.

Natasha gazed down the cavernous elevator shaft lit only by tiny emergency lights flickering in the corners. The massive empty column was bordered by steel beams and cast concrete walls. The whole space stank of oil and hot metal. Thick braided cables groaned in the center of the shaft. Just over a story below, the enormous metal box that was the freight elevator rattled upward. "Now comes the fun part."

Natasha ripped the picture frame from the wall and smashed it against the table. She brushed aside the shattered glass and ripped the canvas from within. The thick, paint-soaked cloth rolled up easily between her fingers. _Hopefully István didn't waste any of the good ones in the conference room. _

Natasha clamped the canvas roll between her teeth. The paint stung bitterly at her tongue and she cringed. Natasha took a deep breath and backed up as far as the oval table would allow._ Here goes nothing. _Before she could think about it anymore, Natasha took off at a sprint. The sole of her shoe hit the ledge at the edge of the floor and Natasha kicked off, launching herself into the shaft. She reached out for the nearest cable and clamped on. The cable dug into her palms and thighs as she skidded to a stop. One at a time she shook out her stinging palms, watching the edges of the shaft as the cable slowly pulled her up to where she'd started.

_Let's hope this works, _she thought. Natasha took the canvas from her mouth and wrapped the painted tube around the metal cable. She braced her feet around the cable, crossing the spires of her heels to form a pocket.

Moving both hands onto the canvas tube, Natasha let herself fall. Stale air whooshed around her as she slid along the cable. Burnt plastic mingled in with the other smells as the cable grated on her stilettos. As she sped toward the elevator, Natasha clamped down on the canvas, twisting in at tightly as she could. She squeezed her knees together, closing the gap between her shoes. Natasha could feel the heat on her palms as friction fought to slow her down. Natasha spied the huge metal box racing toward her. It wasn't going to be enough. With only a few feet to spare, she jumped, landing in a tumble to lessen the impact on herself and the elevator. The resulting bang was loud enough as it was.

"Clint," she whispered over the radio, "I'm in position."

"Copy that," he replied. Clint crept up to the third floor landing, pressing his back against the door. He scooted up to the tiny grated window. A bundle of canvases leaned against the door, blocking his view. "I'm in the service stairwell but I don't have a visual."

"Take the door on your right. It will take you through a hallway and around to the other staircase."

Clint hurried out through the door and down the dimly lit hallway, trying to dodge the empty crates and unused frames in his path. When he judged himself to be about halfway through the passage, Natasha crackled in again over the radio.

"The elevator stopped. Time's up."

Clint sprinted faster, hurdling over a fallen frame to reach the other end. He slid into the landing and up to the other door. Red letters that Clint assumed said something like "restricted access" or "employees only" were stenciled on the beige metal. Clint peered through the tiny window. Between the massive sheets of hanging plastic he could barely see the elevator doors split and open.

"I count seven, maybe eight men on my side of the room, including András. Another six are waiting in the elevator."

"István is dealing with the authorities downstairs, I'm sure."

Clint watched as blurry shadows moved behind the plastic drapes. The figures emerged carrying a ribbed case made of yellow plastic. "I have eyes on the target."

"Let's move."

Clint placed his hand on the door, then paused. "Natasha are you sure about this? Even for us this one seems. . . suicide-y."

"Got a better plan?" Radio silence. "Believe me, if either of us saw a different way. . . "

"I know, I know, we're out of time. Ready?"

"Round 'em up Cowboy. And Clint. . . stay safe."

"Likewise." Clint slipped the second flashbang from his belt. Crouched on the ground, he pushed his back to the door, wedging it open. Clamping down on the handle with his thumb, Clint pulled the pin on the grenade and threw the metal wire to the ground with a soft clink. He took a quick glance through the open door then rolled the metal cylinder across the bare concrete floor. He quickly pulled the door shut behind him and clapped his hands to his ears.

_"Mi az. . . ?"_

_"Gránát!"_

Clint smirked. _Look at me, I'm even learning Hungarian. _A second later the grenade erupted with a horrible bang, like a thunderclap directly overhead. Even with his eyelids squeezed shut Clint could sense the blinding power of the flash that bathed the whole room in white light.

Wisps of smoke floated out beneath the door. _That's my cue. _Clint burst through the door, gun drawn over the smoke. The nearest men stumbled backward, struggling to regain their vision.

_"Go!"_ András yelled as he leaned on a table for support. _"Get the goods onto the elevator!"_ Even with his eyes shut, András turned his head directly at Clint. "I'll deal with you."

"Sorry Boss," said Clint as he struck András over the head, "I quit." The bulky man's body hit the floor with a dull thud. Among panicked shouts, the six men from the elevator rushed out to form a protective circle around the two carrying the yellow case. As one pod, they shuffled hurriedly back to the elevator. _Perfect,_ Clint though, and turned his attention back to the remaining guards.

As the men's vision began to clear, they raised their firearms and trained them on the intruder. At the first unmistakeable bang of a shot fired, Clint summersaulted behind a crate. Bullets whizzed around him, pinging off of the metal shelving and tearing easily through the the plastic drapes. The clip of footsteps approached, and Clint rolled onto his back. With a heave he kicked the wooden crate forward. The wooden box slammed into the man's legs and he tumbled head-first into the crate. Bracing himself with his hands, Clint sprang up and slammed the hinged lid down on the man's back. Pulling an extra weapon from the downed man's belt, Clint fired two shots and the two approaching guards fell to the floor.

_Where'd you go?_ Clint though as he scanned the are for more enemies. The huge sheets of barely translucent plastic carving an aisle down the center of the room were not making it easy.

Clint heard the plastic behind him crinkle. Before he even had time to cock his head, two powerful arms wrapped themselves around his chest, cocooning him in the thick plastic sheet. "Bad choice, buddy." Clint pulled his arms tight to his chest to give himself space, then spun around, reversing the hold. He stepped to the side, spinning the two of them along and winding the other man up in the plastic sheet until he couldn't move. _Four down, one to go._

Clint holstered one of his weapons and sprinted across the little makeshift aisle toward the next hanging sheet. Boosting himself off a table, Clint launched himself up and grabbed on to the sheet. _Finally, some decent height. _He gripped on with one hand and pulled out the gun with the other. Slowly he scanned the room for his final target. A shadow flickered on the far side of the room. _There you are. _

Before Clint could fire, another shot rang out across the restoration room. The rope holding up the plastic sheet and its metal support structure frayed and snapped, sending Clint crashing to the ground. He groaned on the concrete as a powerful figure loomed over him. András Szabo kicked Clint's gun away and hoisted him up by the arms. "You're a clever one, aren't you. But do be advised, Mr. Griggs, that no one double crosses me, and I don't intend to break that record now."

The remaining guard scurried out of the corner. _"You!"_ András barked, _"Code Burgundy. Go find my brother."_

_"Yes Sir!" _the man replied and hurried away out the door.

"Now what am I to do with you, Mr. Griggs? Apparently István was not harsh enough with you. You will not find the same problem with me." He pulled a firearm from his own holster and pressed it to Clint's temple. "Now where is your girlfriend, I would hate for her to miss this."

Clint looked over to the elevator. The ring of men had situated themselves inside, guarding the nuclear material. One nearest to the control panel reached out to hit the button. No. The doors began to close. He wasn't going to make it to the elevator in time. He couldn't just leave Natasha alone with all of them. "I . . ."

A flat red knife flew through the closing elevator doors and buried itself in András's shoulder. He screamed in pain and released Clint's arms. Clint crouched down and swept András's feet out from under him. "Found her," Clint said as he pulled the knife from the other man's shoulder.

Clint whipped around and threw the knife again. It stuck in the side of the closing door, preventing the two sides from meeting. Clint took off at a sprint. He kicked his feet out in front of him and slid the last few feet along the dusty cement floor. One of the guards reached up to remove the blade, and Clint slid into the elevator just as the elevator doors closed on a few strands of his hair. _Home run for the good guys. _

The elevator lurched and began its decent. All of the guards stared at the man now laying on the floor between them, taking a few seconds to process what had just happened. When they had, they waisted no time drawing their weapons on Clint.


	22. Plunge

**A/N: Hey look! Chapter titles! **

"Tasha now!"

On top of the elevator, Natasha clicked her radio to channel 7 and held down the call button. The muffled roar of the blast echoed up the elevator shaft as the grenade ignited, destroying the control relays. The elevator lurched down then ground to a halt as the emergency breaks engaged, trapping it between floors.

Clint twisted on his hip and wasted no time kicking out as many legs as he could reach. Natasha pulled open the emergency hatch and flipped down into the elevator. With her hands still clinging the rim of the hatch, she wrapped her legs around the nearest guard's neck and chocked him out. The next one she sent spinning into his neighbor, then let go, following their momentum and slamming them into the grimy metal wall.

Clint flipped himself up into the fray. He grabbed on to the nearest man's vest and smashed his forehead into his own. The man reeled back and then wound up to strike. He landed a heavy punch to Clint's stomach. Clint drove his knee into the man's diaphragm and crashed a fist into the side of his head. Another guard jumped onto Clint's back. Clint looped his hand around the guard's calf and grabbed onto his opposite wrist as he flipped him over onto the floor.

Suddenly, the unmistakeable clap of a gunshot rang out in the tiny metal room. Clint and Natasha threw their bodies to the ground. The bullet ricocheted around the elevator, grazing one guard's arm and burying itself in the light on the ceiling. The plastic splintered and sparks rained down in the center of the room.

_"Are you stupid?"_ One of the other two remaining guards cried at the one who had fired the gun. He grabbed him angrily by the shirt. _"This is a metal box, you idiot! You could have gotten us all killed!"_

Clint looked over at Natasha as the two guards duked it out. She raised an eyebrow. He shrugged. In sync, they each struck one of the bickering guards over the head, sending them both cascading to the ground. The final guard tucked the precious container in one corner and stood before it, gun draw.

_"Don't move!"_

"Really?" Clint replied. "You're going to risk taking yourself out with us? How heroic."

_"I'm warning you!" _he screamed, brandishing the gun.

As Clint continued to taunt the guard, Natasha launched herself up on the wall. She ran up and bounded down from the corner, crashing down on the man's spine and dragging him to the ground.

Clint offered Natasha a hand as she took it. "Well, that could have gone worse," Clint said.

"We're not out of the woods yet," Natasha puffed. She stood bent over bracing her hands on her thighs as she drew in short, rapid breaths.

"You alright?"

She gave him a little smile. "It's been a while." She straightened up. "Now come on, let's get out of here. Give me a boost?"

Clint interlaced his fingers and boosted Natasha up to the trapdoor. She pulled herself onto the roof of the elevator then extended her hands back down. Clint handed up the case and she slid it carefully beside her. She reached her hand down again and braced her arm and Clint pulled himself up to join her.

"So," he said as they both stood looking up at the elevator cables rising before them.

"So," Natasha replied. "This plan seemed so much better twenty minutes ago.

"Can you make it?"

She brushed him off. "I'm fine. Let's go."

"How do you want to do this?"

"Pass me the knife." Natasha took the blade and severed the hem of her dress, cutting the strip of sparkling fabric into two equal pieces. She bent down and looped one of the strips through one of the cases's two handles then tied a slip knot around Clint's ankle. "What happened to your shoes?"

"It's a long story."

"I don't even want to know."

"What? Why not? You might actually be impressed. I was up on the ceiling and there was this hot water pipe and -"

With the other length of cloth, she tied the other handle to her own foot. "Congratulations MacGyver, now can we get a move on?"

They each selected one of the eight cables racing up from the center of the elevator and began to climb. The slip knots choked around their ankles as the case lifted off the ground. Their hands grated into the steel cables as they climbed.

"Seriously, a bunch of guys were shooting at me and I even used your dangling leg choke thing."

"My what?"

"You know, that thing where you dandle and choke people out with your legs. You just did it."

"Shut up and focus."

Clint quieted and turned his attention back to the climb. His thick muscular arms pulled him up with relative ease, although the cable bit painfully into his palms. Their feet dangled precariously over the growing distance before the elevator roof, weighted down by the case suspended between them. Clint paused to allow Natasha to make up the few feet she lagged behind.

"What?" she spat when she reached his eye level.

"Tasha, I'm sorry."

"For. . ?"

"I made a mistake."

"Yeah, I know. We both did."

"No, I mean I made _the_ mistake. I got sloppy. If I hadn't given you that picture then maybe -"

"Maybe something worse would have happened."

"Always the optimist. But Natasha, you were right. You said this would happen and I didn't believe you. I -"

"No, I wasn't."

"How can you -"

"Clint stop! Please, okay. I can't do this right now."

"Are you alright?"

"No! No I'm not alright. I'm on my last legs, and if I plummet to my death, I'm taking you with me." She swung her leg, making the yellow case shake between them. "Even if we make it up to the fourth floor, we'll still be in the middle of a tinder box with no escape plan! So can we please just stop talking and try to make it out of here alive."

She gritted her teeth and continued climbing. Clint hung his head and followed.

By the time they reached the top of the shaft, Clint could feel his arms jittering dangerously. As Natasha looked over to the open door leading to the conference room, Clint could see her arms and shoulders fighting to keep still. Without speaking, he climbed as high at the case would allow him, then swung horizontally over to the cable nearest the shaft. "Ready?"

"Just do it."

Clint swung back and forth to gather a little momentum. On his final swing, he touched the soles of his feet to the cable and tried to push off. His burnt foot slipped, but his hands were already in the air. Clint flew awkwardly toward the open door. His heart pounded as he watched the elevator shaft pass below him. His vision filled with lines and angles, continually adjusting to match his movement. A second before he touched down, Clint breathed a sigh of relief as the vectors in his mind predicted his path of motion. Clint touched down and immediately tumbled over in a summersault to break him fall. _Not a perfect jump, but at least I -_

A scream pieced through his train of thought. As Clint rolled away from the shaft, the case bound between them had ripped Natasha's ankle out from under her. She hung face-down in the shaft, staring at the hard metal elevator box waiting for her almost two stories below. Natasha could feel the blood rushing to her face. At least she was upside down so Clint couldn't see that her heart was about to fall out of her mouth. She turned her shoulder to look back at him with wide, petrified eyes. The sparkling dress hem groaned and frayed, threatening to let go at the next movement. "Clint!" she screamed.

Clint instinctually took a step forward. The case slid closer to the shaft and Natasha's body lurched forward. He stepped back and the fabric tie frayed further. Natasha's hands slid desperately along the walls as she panicked to find a grip on the smooth concrete. "Tasha? I'm sorry."

She didn't get a chance to reply before Clint wrenched his foot backward. The fabric snapped and Natasha fell forward. Her whole body jarred painfully as a hand caught her ankle. Clint hauled her up to her feet.

Natasha stared blankly at his face. With one fist trembling from strain and adrenaline, she landed a punch to his jaw. Clint reeled back and massaged his face. "I suppose an argument could be made that I deserved that."

"It's not funny!" said Natasha as she slumped down beneath the control panel. Her chest heaved as she struggled to catch her breath and calm her nerves. She rested her head on her knees and thought she might immediately fall asleep. "What the hell happened tonight Clint? I've never made so many mistakes. . ."

Clint eyed the blind-covered glass walls. "I have a feeling we're about to make a few more."

Two battered guards turned the knob and cautiously entered the conference room. Their eyes flicked around to the open elevator, the smashed picture frame, the two wooden panels leaning against the conference table. Suddenly, the closest panel shot forward. It smashed into the closer man's nose and he cried out as blood dripped from his face. The windows shattered as the other guard fired into the room. Natasha sprung out from beneath the table and landed on the underside of the thick wooden wall piece, crushing the man beneath into silence. _"They're here! They're here!" _the second guard yelled as he turned and ran down the hall. Clint buried a bullet in his back.

The musical click of a radio broke the silence that followed. _"We've got them. Fourth floor conference room moving east."_

Natasha looked up a Clint. "We're made."

Clint loosened the slip knot from his ankle and tightened it over his wrist. He loaded a new magazine into his gun, then grabbed the case's plastic handle with his free hand. Natasha grabbed the other and they took off down the hallway.

"This is my last clip," said Clint.

"Maybe not." Natasha ducked into her office through the broken door.

"They really did a number on this place. What makes you think anything's still here?"

"I passed this on my way up." She ran her finger along an ugly split in her desk. "They found the one I left for them to find." Natasha righted her desk chair, ripped off the seat cushion and pulled out a small black handgun.

"That's all you've got?"

"I wasn't exactly anticipating this scenario," she said. Natasha tossed the gun to Clint and he tucked in behind his back. "Use it wisely."

They made for the door, but Clint held up his hand to stop them. He peered through the splintered crack left between the broken hinges. As the nearest guard stepped over the threshold, Clint slammed the door hard against his face. He then ripped it open and punched him hard in the gut. Natasha tore the rubber bottom off of her desk stapler and shook out the sand weighing it down inside. She threw the sand grains into the next guard's eyes, then swiped a long shard of glass off the floor and tossed it like a knife into his neck as he staggered backward trying to clear his vision.

_"Hostiles are on the fourth floor, currently inside Charlotte Welch's office," _the remaining man whispered nervously into his radio as he scanned the walls around him.

Natasha nodded. Clint knelt down and she slid out into the hall as the last guard approached. The man's foot caught on the case suspended between them and he tumbled to the tiled floor.

"Let's get out of here," said Natasha. They adjusted their grip on the case and sprinted down the hall toward the stairwell. Clint threw open the door and immediately slammed it shut again as a swarm of guards charged toward them. Bloodied, disheveled men burst out of the stairwell, shouting insults and rallying cries. Several of the guards Clint and Natasha had just taken down rose and joined their comrades in the main hall. The man Natasha had launched the wooden panel at led the pack, his blood-stained nose off hideously to one side. The guards formed semi-circular ring around them, forcing Clint and Natasha back to the end of the hall. Their backs hit the cool glass of the floor-to-ceiling window over looking the river. Between the black river water and the cloudy night sky, the window only reflected the wicked, vengeful sneers drawn across the guards' crooked faces.

"What's happening?" Clint asked when the guards failed to make a move.

"They're waiting for András to make the call."

Clint glanced over his shoulder. "Tasha, we've got to jump."

She felt like her heart had stopped in her chest. "What?" she squeaked, not bothering to hide the panic in her voice. "Are you insane? Clint, we can't. I can't."

He looked over at her face, cold and clammy with fear. "Look at this. Look at them." Guards continued to arrive, strengthening the semi-circle to three, four, five rows deep. "You said yourself you were running out of steam. I'm not much better off. Tasha, we can't fight them all."

Natasha turned and glanced down at the churning black water four stories below. She felt like throwing up. "And if we hit the rocks?"

"Then at least maybe the current will sweep away the case before the Szabos can get to it," said Clint. The stairwell door squeaked open around the corner. Heavy steps echoed off the tile. "We're running out of time, Natasha, please."

"I . . ." Every strand of muscle in her body screamed at her to fight it, but Natasha leaned her head against the glass and nodded. "What's the plan?"

The wall of guards parted down the center as András Szabo strode to the front. He shook his head. "You two just do not give up, do you? Well you've caused me enough headaches tonight, and I'm all out of patience. So allow me to end this right here." András stuck out his hand and one of the nearest guards handed over his weapon. "Make this easier on yourselves and stand still."

"Okay, okay," said Clint. "We've just got to do this one thing first." He tossed his gun up in the air and Natasha caught it, swinging around shield both of them with the case. Natasha fired off all six shots randomly into and above the crowd. The guards scattered for cover.

András was the first to resume his place in the formation. "Your aim does not leave me impressed."

"Who said I missed?" said Natasha. András's eyes widened as he noticed the web of cracks splintering out on the window behind them. As Natasha fired into at the guards, Clint had pulled the small black pistol from under his jacket. Each of her shots he matched, aiming one after the other at the same point on the thick pane behind him.

Clint took a deep breath. "Feet first, stay as straight as possible."

_"Stop them!"_ András yelled as Clint and Natasha charged backward at the window. The glass shattered around them and they fell backward out of the building, gripping the case tightly between them.

András shouted and shot at them as they sped toward the river. _"Nooooo!" _he screamed, then kicked at the wall. _"Get me István. We have a problem to solve."_


	23. Rolling in the Deep

Wind whipped around Clint and Natasha's ears as they plummeted toward the river. The city lights dissolved into a burr and all sound collapsed into a piercing whistle. Natasha's brain barely had time to panic before her body plunged into the water. The murky darkness engulfed her, wrapping itself around her like an icy cloak. Bubbles rose around her, and carrying away all the air forced out of her lungs by the impact. The bubbles faded away and tumbling shadows began to emerge from the darkness. That clawing feeling began in her lungs as her body used up its remaining oxygen. One of her ruined stilettos slipped off and sank into the blackness as she kicked desperately for air. Was she even headed up? The edges of Natasha's vision began to go black.

Clint plunged into the river and his wrist jarred upward as he sank. He kicked toward the shimmering ribbon of fabric and burst to the surface of the water. The yellow plastic case bobbed beside him. _What do you know. It floats. _He kicked over and hung his arms over the case, sucking in the cool river air as he scanned the area. András leaned out of the window, his mouth moving silently as the distance swallowed his curses. The blue lights of the emergency vehicles flashed in the distance. Uniformed officers and tux-wearing party guests buzzed along the main stairs, apparently unaware of the chaos taking place on the west side of the building. The scene only lacked one thing. No flash of crimson cut through the dark night scene. The quickly fading echo of the ripples where they had hit remained unbroken. "Natasha!"

Natasha's hand broke the surface and she pulled herself up into the air, gasping as she regained her bearings. Her panicked swim for air had lead her closer to the rocks that lined the edge of the river. First her feet, then her knees touched down on the slippery, jagged surface. She reached up her arms and hauled herself farther out of the water as she struggled to slow her heart rate and recharge her aching muscles. With one more step, Natasha's hand touched down on a shiny black dress shoe.

"Good evening once again," said István Szabo as he balanced on the rocks. He crouched down and pointed a gun at Natasha's head. She steeled herself with one last deep breath and looked up into his eyes. In a flash of motion, Natasha grabbed István's outstretched wrist and looped her other hand around his ankle. Her knees bit painfully into the rocks below, but she managed to flip him over her shoulder and into the river. István rose up with beads of water dripping down his angular face. His fist trembled with rage as he retrained the gun. Natasha spun over and kicked the gun out of his hand, sending it flying into the water. She sprung up and leaped at István. He slipped out of the way and let her splash into the river. István grabbed Natasha's arms and heaved her toward the bank. She braced her feet, preparing to toss him again. As she pressed her weight into István's body, Natasha's foot skidded over the slippery surface of the rocks. She lost her stance and tumbled over. István followed her path, adding in his own weigh and bashing her head against the rocky shore. Natasha didn't get up. István grabbed her by the hair and waded out into the river. He nodded to Clint and shouted, "How about a trade?"

"Tasha . . ," Clint whispered. He looked down at the case and the growing distance between Szabo and himself. If the TPE got their hand on what was inside that case, half of Budapest would pay for it. Clint drew in rapid breaths saturating his muscles with oxygen, then dove under and took off in the opposite direction.

"Fine by me!" said István. He grabbed Natasha's jaw and wagged her head. "How I do wish you had been awake to see that. I hope your little romance was worth it. Now . . ." Natasha's unconscious body hung limply over his arm. He lowered her closer to the water's dark surface. "I would have preferred to watch you scream, my dear, by this is just going to have to do." He plunged Natasha's head underwater.

_This had better work,_ thought Clint as he slipped the sparkling red knot off of his wrist. With one last breath he dove under, heading away from Natasha and the Galleria. As soon as he went under, Clint somersaulted, spinning around and letting the case bob along on the current without him. His muscular arms cut cleanly through the murky water; his legs came down in long powerful strokes. All the while, Clint kept the trajectory lined up in his mind. Same angle, same calculation, same method, only this time all he had to shoot with was himself. _If I can't do this . . . _he began, but pushed the thought from him mind as best he could. His lungs started to beg for air. It was a good few meters between him and István, at least. _Just a little farther._ Up ahead a blurry shadow came into view. Another few feet and it turned into legs. _István. _

As Clint approached, a crimson sparkle cut through the water as István plunged Natasha under the surface. _No!_ Clint wanted to shout, but there was no air left in his lungs to shout with. _No time for mistakes,_ he thought. _I can't risk not taking István down in anything less than a single blow. New plan._

His lungs burned, but Clint forced himself to stay under. He darted into the shallow water behind István's knees, hoping the ebb and flow of the waves lapping the shore would cover his movements. At this distance he could see Natasha clearly, her limp body floating helplessly in the river, her hair turned a dark auburn in the water. _Now or never._

Clint leapt up, pushing off of the silt and rocks. On his way to the surface, he brushed Natasha's leg, pulling her knife from its holster. Clint broke the surface with a furious scream and plunged the blade into István's chest. The bulky man fell backward and splashed into the river. Natasha floated to the surface. Clint dragged her up with one arm, then turned to István.

"The case," István sputtered, "get . . . the case."

Clint stepped down hard on István's gut and wrenched the knife out of his chest. He pointed the bloody blade at the small group of guards gathered on the shore. "The first one of you to move gets this buried in his throat. Anyone who doesn't think I can throw it this while swimming is welcome to try me."

Knife in hand, Clint slid back into the water. He braced two fingers under Natasha's chin, keeping her head above water as he towed her along. When they reached the case, Clint hauled Natasha's body on top of it, hiding the bright yellow plastic under Natasha's half-submerged dress whose waterlogged fibers had turned a dark cranberry.

Clint made his way to the far side of the river. He pulled Natasha out of the water beneath a bridge and carried her up the sandy bank. Clint collapsed against the concrete bridge footing and leaned Natasha's head against him, watching the rise and fall of her dress as she breathed.

A few minutes later, Natasha rolled her head to face him. Her eyes fluttered open and squinted as she adjusted to the shadow under the bridge and the rippling pools of light falling off the cars on either side. "What'd I miss?" she coughed. She tried to sit up more and a searing pain shot through the front of her skull. Natasha braced her head with her hand and her fingers came away bloody. "Good god." The lights of the Galleria Szobor sparkled diagonally across the river. "Clint did you swim here?"

He stared back at her with a stupid schoolboy grin. "You're alright."

"I'll take that as a yes."

He twirled a finger around one of her sopping curls. "You look pretty even though your hair's all wet."

"Feeling a little delirious, are we?"

"Noooo. _That_ was in the People's Republic of China. That was _not _a good time. I repeat, _not_ a good time."

Natasha spotted the case sitting beside Clint's hip. "I see you managed to keep that too."

"Yup. And I'm pretty sure I killed István Szabo."

"Shit. Not only will they be hunting down the nuclear material, András will be out for blood. Can you stand?" She hoisted herself off of the sandy ground and held her arms out to Clint.

"Are you different?" he mumbled as she pulled him up. "There's something different about you."

Natasha froze. Normally he would spot this large of a flinch a mile away. Right now, though, she might be in the clear. "I'm all wet?"

"That's it. You're all wet."

"Come on tough guy," she said as they lifted the case off of the ground, "back to the apartment as quick as we can."

When they finally stumbled through the apartment door, Natasha wanted nothing more than to flop down in her bed and sleep until this time tomorrow. She looked longingly at the fluffy comforter, but instead turned her attention back to the living room. She placed the case gently on the floor and draped Clint's arm over her shoulder as she helped him to the couch. "How are you doing babe?" she asked as he crashed gracelessly onto the cushions.

"Have you always been this blurry?"

"I'll take that as an 'I've been better.'" Natasha walked over the the bookshelf leaning up against the wall. She studied it for a moment and ran her fingers along the glossy spine of one of her many art history books. The stiff artificial light glinted off of the glass picture frames. Natasha picked one off of the shelf, a duplicate of the photo that had gotten them into this mess. Or at least the one that had lit the match. They had been pouring the gasoline for months now.

Natasha replaced the frame. "Sorry Charlotte," she whispered and wrapped her hands around the top corners of the bookcase. With a grunt she braced her legs and ripped the wooden structure away from the wall. It crashed down with the dull thud of books on the floorboards and the sharp ring of broken glass.

Clint jumped. "What the . . !"

"This is for your own good, now hang on a second." Natasha grabbed a little hand weight from the milk crate sitting beneath the punching bag and hurled it at the wall. The sheetrock broke away in a jagged hole, which Natasha enlarged with another few smashes from the weight. She reached into the whole and hoisted out a black plastic case with the S.H.I.E.L.D. eagle emblazoned on the lid. Knocking away a few last bits of sheetrock, she placed the case on the coffee table and flipped the latches. The medical kit sprung open, its spring-loaded drawers unfolding in a neat staircase. Though they would undoubtedly been needing every item in the kit at some point that evening, Natasha immediately reached for the six yellow plastic tubes laying at the bottom of the case. She removed three and turned to Clint, giving the first tube a shake. "Roll up your sleeve."

As he fumbled with his damp jacket, Natasha flipped off the cap of the first syringe, revealing it's thick needle.

"Aww Tasha, you know I hate -"

Before he could finish, she jabbed the needle into his bicep and pressed the round button on the other end.

"Aww!"

"Lucky you, you get another," she said as she shook the second tube and stuck it into his arm. "You just sit there for a second and let it kick in." Natasha spun the final syringe around between her fingers, scanning the label for warnings she had never bothered to notice before. WARNING: USE AT OWN RISK. _Oh well,_ she thought _here goes nothing. _She shook the tube and jammed in into her thigh, pressing the button with her opposite palm. Almost immediately she could feel the heat of the shot spreading from the injection sight. The tired ache in her muscles disappeared, her drooping eyelids snapped open and the dull sleep-deprived ache in her head abated.

Clint gripped the edges of the couch cushion as he shook his head. "Whooo!" he yelled. "Good morning Budapest!"

"Feeling better?"

"Much. Thank you. Sorry if I got a little crazy there."

"Don't worry about it," she replied still turning the empty syringe around in her hands. "What do you think is in these?"

"Slow-release adrenaline, all the coffee forests of South America and the extract of the best night's sleep you've ever had," he said as he sank back happily into the couch.

"Don't get too cozy yet. We've got a very unpleasant call to make."

"Right. That." Clint stood up and helped Natasha push the couch aside. They rolled one corner of the tattered rug away so Natasha could pry up the two loose floorboards. Clint pulled up a smaller matching case and brought it over to the kitchen table. He took the satellite phone out of its case and pried off the back of its plastic housing. "Let me just undo my little patch." Halfway through replacing the wires, Clint stopped.

"What is it?" asked Natasha.

"Nothing. It's just . . . this isn't how I thought this would end. Any of it."

"Just make the call."

Clint adjusted the electronics and replaced the cover. As soon as he touched the power button, the phone sprung to life.

"Did you even dial?" said Natasha.

"Nope."

"Put the antenna up. Put the phone on the table," spat Director Fury's icy voice from the speaker. Clint did as he was told, and a small blue light began to glow in the center of the phone. With a soft, oscillating whir, a hologram of Fury's unamused face rose up out of the phone.

Clint turned to Natasha. "Did you know it did that?" She shook her head in reply.

"It's not exactly a standard feature, and it costs some decent pocket change to operate at this distance. But I just could not resist being there "in person" as you two try to explain to me what the hell just happened. Well? I'm listening."


	24. Lights

Clint and Natasha shifted nervously in their chairs, their gazed focused anywhere but on Fury's unflinching countenance before them. The director remained still, his single eye cutting into both of them. Finally, Natasha managed to speak. "We were sloppy. We lost focus, we made mistakes."

"Well if that isn't the understatement of the day. Never in my time as Director, hell never in all my time at S.H.I.E.L.D. have I witnessed two agents blow up a mission so spectacularly. I did not expect behavior like this from my two senior field agents."

"And let me guess," said Clint, "you're not mad you're just disappointed."

"Oh no, I am absolutely furious."

Clint swallowed. The cold, cutting tone of Fury's voice was enough to make even him refrain from pointing out the pun.

A sound bite from the TPE's speech at the gala came through the speakers. "Sound familiar? Can either of you two explain to me why the terrorist group I sent you to stop is threatening one of the most important cities in Central Europe? You had two objectives: uncover their plot and stop it. From the sound of it, you've done neither."

"Actually, Sir, we've kind of done both. You see - "

"Clint," Natasha hissed and flashed him a warning glance.

"Like I said, I better start hearing some answers very, very soon."

Natasha started from the beginning, all the while staring at a knot in the floorboards: Griggs, the paintings, the gallery, right up through their escape in the river. Of course she omitted a few details along the way.

Fury shook his head. "Oh, this just keeps getting better. Not only did you make a hideous, flaming spectacle of what should have been a routine mission, but you managed to poke the hornet's nest along the way."

Clint nodded. "They know we're tired and injured. They'll want their case, and they'll be out for revenge. We destroyed the case's tracking system, but it won't be long before they find us."

Fury shook his head. "And here I though the fun was over. Unfortunately we're going to have to cut this little chat short." Clint and Natasha breathed a short-lived sigh of relief. "A Support and Recovery team is being scrambled as we speak, but their ETA to Budapest is just over six hours. Do you think you can hold off the TPE for that long?"

"Yes Sir," said Natasha.

"And Agents, as soon as you are back on base, we are going to sit down and have a _long_ debrief. By then you should be able to tell me _exactly_ what went wrong. Think it over as you're waiting to take on the full force of a terrorist cell by yourselves." Fury's striated blue figure turned away from them and shrank slightly as he stepped away from the holographic projector, then his good eye flicked back over his shoulder. "Fury out."

The light cut out and the phone went silent. Clint and Natasha quickly unlaced their fingers. Natasha hid her face in her hands. Clint leaned back in his seat. "Wow. I feel like absolute crap now," he said.

"You mean you didn't before?"

"Good point."

"I have never been so humiliated. I've never made so many mistakes."

Clint got up out of his chair. "Come on. Fury's right, we need to get out of here. The Szabo boys both have this address on file. It's the first place they'll look."

Natasha stood up and waived a hand. "After you."

Clint crouched down behind the kitchen counter. Trying not to make too much noise, he unloaded the pots and pans from their shelves. When the cabinets were empty except for the powder blue contact paper peeling away from the plywood, Clint reached in and struck the back panel with his palm. It gave way with the bounce of a small spring and he slid the false back over to the side of the counter. "Haven't seen you in a while," he said as he pulled his neatly folded bow from its hiding place. "Come to Papa."

Natasha shook her head. She pulled a knife from the butcher's block on the counter and hurled it at the heavy bag. It buried itself deep in the course cloth, and Natasha strode over to meet it. She pulled down on the handle, slicing a longer slit it the bag and letting the sand and filler material drain onto the floor. Reaching into the center, she pulled out a large plastic tube. Shaking off the sand, she unscrewed the cap and pulled out one soft leathery corner of her Black Widow uniform. She could hear Clint's shades rattling around at the bottom of the tube.

"Careful with that," said Clint as he entered the bedroom. He stood on the mattress and lifted up the suspended ceiling tiles to retrieve another S.H.I.E.L.D. case, and pulled out the two guns strapped below their respective nightstands before he left. When he came back into the main room, Natasha stood behind the television with a screwdriver. She carefully pried away the backing and placed it on the floor. From tucked within the empty spaces between the electronics, she pulled out various metal components. With several sharp clicks she assembled them into two small black firearms.

"Here," said Clint as he tossed her a pile of clothes. "Our party clothes will only attract attention. Not to mention I'm starting to chafe."

"Be serious Clint," Natasha replied as she tugged on the black tank top, black sweatpants and cut off gray sweatshirt he'd thrown her. The dry cloths did feel incredible against her skin.

"That was a completely serious and legitimate fact." Clint pulled on a similar outfit and knocked the hood of his sweatshirt away from his spiked hair. "Oh yeah, that's the stuff."

Natasha ignored him and took inventory of the supplies they had collected. "We're missing two."

"Lamp," said Clint, and he climbed up on the coffee table. "Hand me the screwdriver, would you?" Natasha took it and whipped it the way she would throw a knife. Clint caught it easily between his fingers. "Watch it."

He unscrewed the overhead light fixture and carefully placed the frosted glass bowl beside him. Then he removed the plastic plate attached to the ceiling and let it dangle by the wires. Out of the hole, he pulled out two more identical cases, then hopped down onto the floor. "Well, that's it," he said. Natasha took one last look around the apartment, the books and photos smashed on the floor, the sand still dripping steadily from the bag, the pots on the counter, her now dull red dress in a heap on the floor. "Unless there's anything else you want to take."

Natasha snapped her head forward and grabbed all the cases she could carry. "No. Let's just go."

Clint placed a tiny sensor on the door frame, then shut it behind him. The next time the door was opened, he'd know. They piled the cases into the rickety elevator and hit the warn star of the lobby button. At the last second, Clint also hit the number 4. "Actually, there is one more thing I need you to do."

Natasha stepped out on the fourth floor and knocked on the door marked 4B. Boris and Marika Bognár took no time at all in answering the door. "_What the hell are you kids doing up there?" _Boris shouted. _"It's 2:30 in the morning!"_

_"Do you two have friends or family in the city? Someone you could stay with?"_

_"What? Well sure, but -"_

_"You might consider taking a little trip. Tonight if possible. Spread the word to anyone else on the floor," _Natasha said, then turned away and stepped back into the elevator.

_"What a strange girl," _said Marika. She and Boris exchanged puzzled glances. _"Well? Pack a bag."_

"Thanks," Clint whispered over the clatter of the elevator.

"No problem."

The elevator jerked to a stop and they hustled out. Clint hoisted one of the larger cases onto his shoulder and held two more with his other arm. With his bow strapped carefully to his back, he surveyed the empty street. "Clear," he said, and walked down the crumbling concrete steps to the curb.

Natasha slung the costume tube across her back, stowed the two guns and followed him, the remaining cases clenched in her hands. "What's the plan? Are we going to run?"

"And let them destroy god knows what to find us?" Clint shook his head. "Besides, I've run away enough for one day."

"Clint, we can't fight them all, not by ourselves. We barely made it out the first time."

"Fine, we'll make it as far was we can, then we'll hide. If they can't find us before S.H.I.E.L.D. gets here, great."

"And if they do?"

"We'll be ready."

They hurried away from the apartment as fast as their burdens would allow. Sparse streetlights flickered as they slid from shadow to shadow. The muted crunch of sand beneath tires rang out loudly on the deserted street. Clint and Natasha automatically ducked into the nearest alley and froze themselves in the deepest shadow. The car crawled by slowly. Clint and Natasha pressed themselves against the wall as the old car's headlights lightened the shadows in the alleyway. Eventually the two points of yellowed light disappeared down a distant street. They waited a few more silent minutes before peeling themselves away from the dew-covered brick.

"We have to get off the street."

"I think I know a place," said Natasha. A few blocks away she came to a stop in the shadow cast by a thick brick pillar marking the corner of a tall wrought iron fence.

Clint peered around the rectangular pillar at the playground behind it. "A school? That's a little sadistic, don't you think?"

"Not the school, the building across the street. Three stories, all office space, so it will be empty for the weekend. The school should be too. If they do manage to find us, no one else needs to get caught in the crossfire."

"It'll do." They hurried across the worn pavement, only to hear the eerie squeal of tires again.

"Think it's them?"

"Don't care to find out."

They threw themselves behind a dumpster sitting against their chosen building. The opposite wall grew brighter and brighter as the car approached. Clint ran up the half-staircase leading to a small deck and side entrance. A chain and padlock snaked their way around the doorknob. He yanked on it, then immediately cringed at the jangle that reverberated through the silent alley. When he looked back at Natasha, her eyes flashed wide as Clint's face began to glow with the reflected light of the approaching car. Clint scurried down the steps as quietly as possible, then crouched on his knees beside Natasha. Her slender fingers wrapped around the peeling metal of the basement window. Clint added his hands and with one burst of effort they wriggled the window casing free from its concrete foundation.

Clint nodded and Natasha slipped through the rectangular opening. She landed on her feet in a dark, musty basement, then immediately rose up and stretched her hands up to the window. As fast as he could Clint handed the cases through the narrow opening and Natasha stacked them against the wall. The entire alley glowed with the soft yellow light of the headlamps, leaving Clint no place to hide. The dull hum of a motor crawled to a halt beside the alley.

Natasha waved frantically at Clint. He shot his legs through the hole in the concrete, but his body jarred sharply when he reached his shoulders. _Really? Really? _he wanted to shout. He wriggled his torso as much as he could, trying to wrench his shoulders free. Natasha wrapped her arms around his calves and pulled. Clint bit his lip as he fell through and the rough concrete tore at his arm.

As soon as he his the floor Clint sprung back up and climbed on top of the nearest plastic case. He reached out and grabbed the window casing, trying his best to put it back in place. Outside, footsteps crunched on the dirt. Clint remained where he was, nudging the window back exactly as they found it. _It's gotta be perfect or else -_ The footsteps grew louder and Natasha grabbed a fistful of Clint's sweatshirt and dragged him down to the ground.

They sat there, huddled against the wall, trying to listen to the footsteps over their pounding hearts. Down here they were sitting ducks. If András or whoever was in that car saw them, so much as suspected they were there, it would be all to easy to take them out. If the body attached to those footsteps found anything in the alley out of place, he could kill them with two quick shots through the basement window. They wouldn't even have time to run.


	25. You Were Right

Over the panicked hammering of their chests, the footsteps outside turned and crunched away. Clint and Natasha waited, frozen the way they had fallen against the wall. They waited but nothing came. A car door thudded shut and the light drained away from the alley. They sat frozen for several minutes more, but nothing came.

Finally Natasha let out a long audible exhale of the breath she felt like she's been holding for fifteen minutes. She opened her eyes and let them adjust to the dark basement as she waited for Clint to break the silence.

He leaned his head back against the musty concrete wall. "I'm getting too old for this."

Natasha managed a half-hearted chuckle. "Too old for this? You're not even forty."

"Yeah but I'm like 100 in Agent Years."

"Then I'm dead in Agent Years."

"You're younger than I am."

"Not in Agent Years." Natasha stood up. "Come on. Let's get away from the windows." They hauled the cases to a large empty space in the middle of the floor and sat down with their backs against shelf of junk. Several more mismatching shelves stood randomly around the floor. A few metal filing cabinets were tucked by the door leading upstairs and a furnace sat cold and empty in the far corner.

Natasha pulled the medical kit up beside her and flipped the latches. "You're bleeding."

"Story of my life," Clint replied as he pulled the sleeve of his sweatshirt toward him to get a better look. The concrete window frame had torn through the gray fabric and now warm blood trickled down his arm. Natasha gestured for him to slip out of the sweatshirt but he shook his head. "I'm fine."

Natasha paused a moment. She grabbed his forearm and gently pulled his arm out of his sleeve. "You've got some gravel imbedded in the cut, nothing serious."

Clint pulled the sweatshirt off and clumped it loosely into a ball, which he tucked behind his head. He leaned against the shelves as Natasha took a flashlight and tweezers to his arm. When she's removed as much gravel as she could, she rinsed it in antiseptic liquid and began to wind a length of cloth bandage around his arm.

"Do you really think we can stay hidden until the S.H.I.E.L.D. team arrives?" she said.

Clint looked up at her. "No."

"Me neither. In that case, you're probably going to need this." She taped the bandage off and gave his arm a pat.

"That gash on your forehead is next."

Natasha sat still as Clint sat up and gently took hold of her chin. He squirted the antiseptic solution onto a cloth and dabbed at her forehead, first on the splotch of blood dried around the would and then at the gash itself.

"Listen, Tasha. . ."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"You don't know what I was going to say."

"But I know I don't want to talk about it."

"How is that worse that just thinking about it, leaving it trapped to tumble around your brain?" He held the cloth against her head. "This is fairly deep. Do you want me to stitch it up?"

"No, just tape it."

Clint turned and rummaged through the drawers of the medical kit.

Natasha didn't move. "I got too attached. I got distracted."

Clint turned back with a tiny white butterfly bandage pinched between his fingers. "Hold still," he said, and held her chin again. Clint wiped her skin dry and went to position the bandage. "I wasn't any better. You were right. You said we would falter. You predicted exactly -"

"No I didn't!" Natasha wrenched her jaw out of Clint's gentle grip. "Stop saying that. Just because I said some words, made some half-assed prediction, doesn't mean I knew _anything_ about what was going to happen here. So if you -"

Clint put his hand on her shoulder. "Tasha."

She met his eyes, then let her head hang. "Sorry."

Clint hilted her head up and peeled the backing off of a fresh bandage. He tucked her hair behind her ear and stuck on one side of the bandage.

"And I'm sorry I snapped at you back in the elevator shaft, it's just . . . We came so close. So close to being something more than code names and mission numbers and bullets."

Clint pulled the bandage taught, drawing the thin center strip over the gash and pulling it closed. He untucked her hair, letting the bright waves fall back over the side of her face. "Who says we have to let go?"

"Grow up."

"Excuse me?"

"Clint, even if we live through this morning, we _cannot_ take many more missions like this. We can't risk being this distracted _ever again_."

"Why not? Why can't we learn to work together this way, just like we had to learn to be partners in the first place?"

"Because it will just hurt that much more for whichever one of us goes second." Natasha grabbed his hands and turned the palms up to the ceiling. "You've got pretty nasty cable burns." She reached into the kit and slathered his raw red hands with an ointment that smelled vaguely minty.

"And it's not worth it?" said Clint. "I'm not worth it?"

Natasha bound a thin breathable cloth around his hand, looping it around his fingers like a boxing wrap. She pulled it a little too tight. "I never said that."

"You might as well have." Clint snatched the white cloth from her grip, and continued winding it around his own palm. Natasha followed suit, tending to the cable burns on her own hands and wrapping them in a similar fashion with the lengths of bandage. When they were almost through, Clint leaned back against the shelf and broke the silence with a snort.

"Something funny?"

"We're right back where we started. I want to take a leap of faith and you're too afraid of what you might lose to follow me."

"This isn't how we started."

"Oh really? How's that?"

Natasha grabbed his chin with one of her freshly bandaged hand and pulled him in for a kiss. "Do I look like I'm running?"

Their lips parted again and they leaned their foreheads together as they knelt on the clammy cellar floor. Clint smiled. "Not on the outside."

Natasha swung a soft punch at his shoulder, then rose and wove through the cases to find the cylindrical container. "Ready to gear up?"

"What happens if I say no?"

Natasha pulled her uniform from the container and threw the tube at Clint. "You gear up anyway."

"First thing's first," he said. Clint kicked off the sneakers he'd thrown on back at the apartment, then spread burn cream over the soles of his blistered feet and wrapped them in bandages. "I'm starting to feel like a mummy."

Natasha ignored him. She held her suit up in her hands, feeling the soft, lightweight material glide over her fingertips. "I haven't seen you in a while." Limb by limb she slipped into the black fabric, letting it coat every muscle like a second skin. She drew the zipper up and took a breath. Already she felt safer, stronger. She no longer had to worry about adjusting her movements to accommodate a flowing dress or the constricting sleeves of a sweatshirt. Encased in the inky black fabric, she felt like she could simply vanish into the night.

Normally, that rare feeling of safety and freedom was all that accompanied the suit. Tonight, however, she found that lightness weighed down by something else. Natasha twisted to glimpse the S.H.I.E.L.D. emblem adorning both her shoulders. _Right. That. Because S.H.I.E.L.D. owns me. Because I'm Madame X. _She picked up the cold hourglass belt buckle hanging from her waist and ran her fingers over the crimson lacquer. _Because I am the Black Widow. _Natasha clipped the belt into place. "Welcome back."

Clint pulled on his black cargo pants and cinched the belt tight. Metal buckles clinked against his thighs, and the spongy material of the built-in knee pads pressed against his knees. He stuck his arms through the sleeveless jacket and zipped it up to his neck. Stretching his arms up to toward the ceiling, he rotated his torso back and forth, feeling the plastic ribs on his sides bend with his movement. _Now for the most important part._ Clint flipped open one of the larger cases and pulled out his combat boots. "I love you guys," he whispered. He sunk his sore feet into the perfectly moulded rubber and leather. With the sharp clicks of metal latches, he strapped them on. Clint straightened his short collar and smiled. "Hawkeye's back baby!"

"Forgetting something?" Natasha shook the tube and let his purple-tinted glasses tumble into her hand.

"Watch the shades!"

"Pass me the .20 cals, would you?" Natasha said, and she snugged the two small guns into the dueling holsters now strapped to her thighs. From another case she pulled out her tool belt and slung it on so it hung along her hips.

Clint popped the largest case, revealing his fully stocked quiver. He pulled his finger and wrist guards from the compartments beside it and slid them onto his hands. Reaching behind him he clipped the quiver to its place on the back of his uniform.

Natasha strapped on her fingerless gloves and slid the two black gauntlets over her wrists.

Clint took the handle of his folded bow and snapped it to life.

"What's left?" Natasha asked.

"Just these." Clint opened the last case to reveal two assault rifled resting neatly in their slots.

"Those'll do."

"Here." Clint stripped the foam padding from the case holding his quiver and placed the yellow case they'd stolen inside. It and the rifles they placed at their feet; the rest they stacked neatly beside them.

"We should try to get some sleep," said Natasha.

"After those shots you gave me? I'll be up for days."

"Still, you don't want to burn through them. Four and a half hours until the S.H.I.E.L.D. team arrives. I'll take first watch." They settled themselves back against the shelves. Natasha let Clint lean against her shoulder. The bluish shadows of the basement sat perfectly still on the cement. All sound had died away except for the rhythmic hush of their breathing. After a few more minutes of stillness, Natasha broke the silence. "God this whole thing feels like a dream."

"I though I was supposed to be sleeping."

"Were you?"

"No. The good kind of dream or the bad kind?"

"A little bit of both."

"Want me to pinch you? You're right. It's probably safer if we both wake up."

"No."

"No?"

"I was right," said Natasha.

"Yes, by this point we've established that."

"I was right, that doesn't mean you were wrong."

Clint put on his best cocky schoolboy grin. "Tell me more."

"You know what I mean. You said we would fall even farther in sync; you said we would work. Well, mission aside . . . don't we?"

Clint sat up and stared back at her with his mouth hanging open.

"What, is that so crazy?"

"No, no of course not, it's just . . . 'mission aside?' Did the Black Widow really just admit to a world beyond the missions? I have never, ever heard you talk like that before, Natasha."

"And?"

"What changed? And don't say me, because that's a blatant lie."

"How do you know?"

"I've been trying to get you to see that for years."

"I guess I can be pretty stubborn, huh?"

"For my own safety, I'm not going to answer that." Clint took her bandaged hand in his. "Seriously though."

"It's. . ." What would happen if she told him? Would it really be so bad? She opened her mouth to let the words fall out, but they caught in her throat. Maybe it was for the best. Natasha shook her head. "You talk a lot, you know that? You've tried to explain it to me a hundred times, but it never really meant anything. I guess I'm finally learning it for myself. And if we make it out of here today, I'll tell you how."

"I'd like that."

Natasha didn't even bother trying to hide her smile. "Yeah. You will."


	26. Smoke

"Tasha. Tasha wake up."

Natasha pinched her eyes shut then let them flicker open to take in the cellar, now illuminated by dusty columns of sunlight. She rolled her head along Clint's shoulder and he stopped shaking her arm when she met his eyes. "What is it?" she asked, though she could tell by his tired face it was not good news.

Clint held up a small electronic screen. "They're here. The apartment door has just been breached."

Natasha pulled herself up. "What time is it?"

"7:26. The S&R team is still half an hour out."

"Wonderful." She pulled out a set of ear radios and handed one to Clint. "Here we go again." Natasha lifted one of the assault rifles from its case. "What's the plan?"

Clint picked up the other, and slipped one of the spare handguns behind his back. "We get to higher ground. Then it's Szabo's move."

He bent down and slid the black S.H.I.E.L.D. case hiding the TPE's nuclear material beside the dusty shelving unit and then stacked the matching cases in a pyramid around it. Clint searched his pockets and came up empty. "We really don't have much to work with, do we?"

"What do you need?"

"Anything that blows up."

Natasha reached into one of the pouches on her utility belt and held a small metal disk between two fingers. "I have plenty of smoke bombs, and a couple of these."

"Keep the rest; this should do." Clint took the little explosive and pried off the housing. With a half-used spool of fishing line, he wove a little web around the cases and ended back at the bomb, tying all the components together. "It's crude, but it should work. If anyone disturbs the cases, it'll go off, but it's only large enough to stop one person, two at best."

"Is that safe?" said Natasha. "I mean, you're not going to set off the nukes of right?"

"I figure, if whatever's in that case was primed to explode, the TPE would have just detonated _us_hours ago."

"Fair point, I just -" Natasha stopped. "Did you hear that?" She held up a hand to stop Clint from moving and listened to the unmistakeable boom of an explosion. The remnants of the pressure wave radiating out from the blast washed over them a second later, leaving a slight ring in their ears.

Clint checked the screen of his motion sensor device. All the information had gone blank. "Auntie Em, Auntie Em."

Natasha shook her head. "Move." She grabbed the gun tighter and tried not to picture the apartment up in smoke, the glass blown out of the windows and raining down in the alley, the makeshift dance floor stripped down to the support beams, the glossy book pages displaying the works of Sargent and Degas and Klimt just bits of ash wafting up with the column of smoke rising from the apartment.

Clint ran forward and kicked down the basement door. "Where do we go from here?" Clint asked as they ran up the stairs.

"You're the strategist," Natasha replied. "I just follow orders."

"No, I mean -" he opened the door to the first floor and nodded after scanning the room that appeared to be offices and a small reception area "- the two of us. 'Us.' Assuming we make it out of this, what happens then?"

Natasha paused as they ran to the second floor. Clint heard her footsteps drop off and stopped a few stairs higher.

"Really?" said Natasha. "You want to talk about this _now?_"

"I want to know what I have to look forward to back on the Helicarrier. You still gonna want me once Fury chews my head off?"

"Don't worry we're going to match." She checked the second floor, just empty cubicles. "Clear."

Clint grabbed her arm. "Tasha, we might not get another chance for this."

She turned to face him. "I've never been one to worry about the future. Either it will come or it won't. Who knows what could happen between now and then. What we could lose. _Who_ we could lose."

Clint struck the wall beside him, leaving a light dent in the sheetrock. "I hate this."

"You can feel it slipping away, can't you? Sebastian and Charlotte's lives collapsing around us."

"This whole crazy night, that's what's been on my mind. You know, besides you, and not dying, and the fate of the world. It feels like I've been fighting for . . . this. Whatever it is we've managed to find here. And now . . ." Clint shook his head. "Never mind."

Natasha grabbed his hand. "You still are. You're still fighting for you, and me, and all of the craziness that comes with us. Just . . . just be there, ok, when all the smoke clears. Make it through. I need you too."

He stepped down to the stair above hers. "Likewise." He kissed her, and then turned and jogged up a few steps.

Natasha called after him. "And Clint?" He looked back over his shoulder. She took a quick glance at the tiles and forced the words out of her mouth. "I love you."

He smiled. "I love you too."

They hurried to the third floor, and Clint peeked cautiously through the door. "Clear." He went to swing it shut when Natasha's hand flew out to stop the him. Clint followed her into the room. "What is it?"

They wove over the short-napped blue carpet and through the neat grid of cubicles. The empty azure walls cast a calming blue glow over the office space.

"Damn," said Natasha as they neared front wall. She pulled open one of the windows and sharp squealing giggles and shouts and the dull thump of feet on wood chips drifted in from across the street. "There are children on the playground."

"At 7:30 on a Sunday morning?"

"Judging by the lights there are more in the building. Maybe some kind of event is going on at the school, who knows. We have to get them out of here before -"

Natasha stopped. A hissing whistle cut through the still morning air. Most of the children on the playground paused too, stopping their games to look down the street. A second later, a dull pop echoed around the slight bow in the street, in the direction of the destroyed apartment.

"What was that? I don't have a visual."

The whistle came again, followed by the smash of glass and the thudding boom of a blast. Whistle, smash, boom. Whistle, smash, boom.

The children on the playground began to cry, screaming and running back into the school. Several parents appeared, scooping up the littlest ones and herding the rest inside.

Smoke began to billow from the neighboring buildings. Not the charred blackish smoke still rising from the apartment building, but the uniform light gray smoke of a -

"Smoke bomb," said Clint. "They're trying to smoke us out!"

Whistle, smash, boom. Whistle, smash, boom. Whistle, smash, boom. The columns of smoke came in quick succession, cascading from one side of the street to the other. What seemed like seconds after they had started, the building next door billowed hazy white smoke from all its windows.

Clint and Natasha's eyes met. "Run!"

They sprinted away from the window to the sound of screams and coughs as smoke bombs rained through the finger paint covered windows of the school. The sharp shatter of glass rang out from the first floor of their office building, then the second. "Hit the deck!" Clint screamed as the windows behind them shattered. Two diamond-shaped white canisters sailed through the window and clattered onto the floor. Clint and Natasha skidded onto the rough carpet as the shells exploded around them. Acrid white smoke filled the air. It stung at their eyes, making them water even as they clamped their eyelids shut. It burned their noses and lungs. Every breath stung like shrapnel pouring into their airways. They coughed uncontrollably, trying to expel the smoke from their bodies, but each coughing fit only made them inhale again.

Clint found Natasha's hand and pulled her forward. They stayed as low to the ground as possible and army crawled blindly for the door. When they found it, Clint groped for the doorknob and threw it open. They hurried into the stairwell and slammed the door behind them. Natasha opened her eyes. The smoke was thinner here, but still seeping in from under the doors. She squinted, blinking furiously at the stinging smoke. Grabbing Clint by the collar, she hauled him up the stairs. When they made it to the final landing, Natasha threw a kick at the door, breaking the bolt free from the door frame. As more smoke gathered in the stairwell, Clint and Natasha burst out onto the roof and collapsed on the gravel.

They coughed and spat and tried to blink the smoke from their puffy red eyes. Clint rolled over onto his back, sucking in gulps of fresh air and coughing most of them out again. For a minute he was coughing so hard he thought he might vomit. Natasha rose up on her knees, letting her tears drip onto the gravel.

Clint pushed his tinted purple glasses up onto his forehead and closed his watering eyes. As his body worked to clear the smoke, he turned his attention to his ears. For the moment the bombing had stopped. Hideous shrieks tore through the street carrying unmistakable anguish through smoky, still air. From that sound of it, at least one child in the school hadn't made it through the smoke. "Damn. If András thinks we're hiding out in there, they'll attack the school."

"What do we do?"

"We let them know where we are." Clint held up the rifle and flipped the glare-free glasses back over his eyes. "Politely, of course."

The gravel lining the roof crunched as they crawled up to the low parapet ringing the roof. Clint rose up on his knees and tipped the barrel of the gun down toward the street. "Six men in the back of a rusty old pick-up. Two with what look like rocket launchers sitting on their shoulders, the other four just lobbing the smoke shells by hand. The truck is surrounded by a ring of maybe ten men, all heavily armed. No sign of Szabo or Varga, but they can't be far behind."

"Do you have a shot?" asked Natasha.

"I always have a shot." Clint waived a finger, signaling Natasha to brace her rifle on the parapet too. "Aim for the tires, we don't need that truck going any farther. I'll get the bombers. Then, take whoever you can get. Of course, this would be easier with proper sniper rifles, but we'll do what we can. Ready?"

Down on the ground, the guards ringing the truck fanned out, scanning the street for any sign of the fugitives. Buckles clicked and heavy boots clomped on the asphalt as they moved. A new man joined them from down the street, his long stringy body less heavily armed but his weapons clearly superior to those of his comrades.

_"Why did you stop?" _Zoltán Varga demanded of the driver.

_"We had some activity inside this school building, but no sign of the targets."_

_"Blow it anyway." _He turned and barked at the six men in the truck bed. _"Got any real shells in those buckets of smoke?"_

_"Yes Sir,"_ a younger man holding one of the rocket launchers replied.

_"Use them."_

The man with the launcher lowered it between his knees and dug through the buckets of conical white shells that lined the center of the truck bed behind him. He grabbed a larger, clay-colored shell tucked carefully at the bottom of the bucket.

No one saw the first flash. The young man with the rocket launcher toppled over. The man beside him grabbed his shoulder and turned him over, revealing the blank look on his face and the trickle of blood down his forehead. _"They're here!"_ he cried. _"Everyone look out, they're -"_ He slumped down over the bucket of smoke shells beside his teammate.

Bullets whizzed around the street. Soon all six of the men in the truck lay dead, and air hissed from the punctured tires. The other guards whipped their heads arounds, searching for the source of gunfire.

_"There!"_ Varga shouted and he caught the instantaneous glimmer of a gun barrel. _" On the roof!"_

The remaining guards scrambled for cover, crouching behind light poles and street signs. Varga slung himself behind the truck. _"Return fire!"_ he ordered, then pressed on the translucent white earwig curling down from his ear._ "Boss, we've got them."_

_"Good work,"_ András's voice crackled in his ear. _"Slow them down until I arrive." _

_"With pleasure." _

Bullets now rained along the street from both sides. The rapid bursts and bright orange flashes of the TPE's submachine guns rolled like a thunder and lightning storm up and down along the block.

Varga braced his foot on the rear tire and pushed himself up into the bed of the truck. Staying as flat as possible, he shimmied into the corner of the bed where the first man had fallen. As bullets pinged on the metal sides around him, he ripped the rocket launcher from the guard's shoulder and inserted the clay-brown shell into the cylinder. A crooked smile spread across Varga's face. _"Down you go,"_ he snickered, rose up on his knees and pulled the trigger. His whole body jerked and rattled as the shell exploded out of the tube. It spiraled up toward the corner of the office building, leaving a swirling trail of smoke as it went.

"Shit!" Clint shouted as the entire truck bed flashed yellow with the explosion of the rocket launcher. He barely had time to finger an arrow before the shell exploded into the side of the building. The entire structure shuttered and a ball of smoke and flames shot up from the corner. Plaster and concrete groaned and crumbled as the top right quadrant of the building's facade toppled onto the sidewalk.

Hairline cracks spread out from the impact site, forming a spiderweb of lines beneath Natasha, who sat crouched closer to the edge of the building. She scrambled backward but it wasn't enough. The roof gave way beneath her and she tumbled toward the ground. Clint dove for her but the cracks reached him a second later. They both plummeted down in a shower of debris.

Clint reached out and locked onto Natasha's arm. With his free hand, he jabbed the arrow into the side of the building. Their bodies jerked violently as they swung to a halt at the second story. The ground below seemed to bungee down and back again and they caught their breath. Natasha could feel the tremors in Clint's arm as adrenaline coursed through his veins. Her own heart pounded into her throat as the last bits of dust and debris rained down around them. Clint looked at the hole beside them. The entire face of the front corner of the building had been torn away. A massive jagged hole left the height of the third floor and part of the second exposed to the street.

"You're surrounded!" Varga shouted up to them. Clint and Natasha looked back over their shoulders. Every guard left standing formed a ring at the base of the building, weapons trained on their defenseless forms. Emerging from around the bend in the street, a fresh wave of guards took their places at the base of the building, adding a second and third ring to the circle of weapons. Striding up behind it all came András Szabo.

"Bring them here."

"Tasha grab onto my legs." Natasha obeyed and Clint used his newly free hand to unclip the bow and quiver from his back and fling them through the gaping hole in the building to the third floor, hoping they would land on solid ground.

Several guards scrambled up the rubble pile at the base of the building. With crude rope lassos they latched on to Clint and Natasha's ankles and yanked them down. One strong-armed guard caught Clint as he fell, then immediately tossed him gracelessly onto the sidewalk. Natasha's did the same, and she tumbled to a stop in the gritty debris beside Clint. One hand after another clawed at their scratched and bloodied bodies. The hands hauled them up and dropped them side by side on their knees. Clint and Natasha looked up to see the bulky bodies attached to all those hands. Broken, bloody faces glared back beneath bruises and bandages. Hatred burned in every single pair of eyes. Split, blood-crusted lips shouted for revenge. Clint jerked his shoulder and more hands piled on it, keeping him still. The hands bracing their arms lifted away as the rope lassos were wound around their wrists.

András Szabo stepped forward. His eyes twitched with rage. "I've had about enough of this. Congratulations. You've made it personal. I hope you use your last few seconds to sorely regret that decision."

"Don't you want to know where your case is?" Clint asked.

"I'll find it, don't you worry. I'll level this whole neighborhood if I have to, but I'll find it. Now, you two have caused me more trouble, more _pain -._ Finish them."

"How should we do it?" asked Varga. He smiled wickedly and glared at Clint. "Execution style?"

Two eager guards raised their weapons and touched the barrels to the back of Clint and Natasha's skulls, but András raised a hand. "No." He leaned in to Clint, bracing his hands around Clint's neck. His meaty thumbs pressed down on Clint's windpipe, threatening to choke him out. The edges of his vision blurred as Szabo spoke. "I'm not the kind of man who jumps out from behind like a coward. I look my prey in the eyes when I pull the trigger."

He released Clint's neck and Clint gasped in air. When he looked up, his eyes crossed on the barrel of András's pistol held inches from his forehead.

András undid the safety with a tiny clink. "Point blank."


	27. Love is for Children Part 1

András braced his other hand against the side of the gun to catch the reverberation. His index finger rested anxiously against the trigger. Zoltán Varga circled around the crowd of guards, his own gun rattling in his hand as he flexed his wrist. He pinched Natasha's cheeks together twisted her to face him. "I would have preferred Robin Hood over here, but you'll do just fine." Varga let go of her face and lifted his gun up to Natasha's forehead. "_You might want to back up boys. This is about to get messy._"

The last few guards removed their clawing grip from Clint and Natasha's shoulders. They stepped back into the circle and braced their hands on their weapons, ready to strike if one of their enemies so much as flinched. The guards lined up opposite Szabo and Varga marched to one side or the other, moving out of the path of the bullets and brain matter that were soon to come.

Clint never took his eyes away from András. "Do it," he spat. Szabo's arms trembled with rage.

Natasha flicked her eyes around. So many guns trained on them. So many guards waiting to tear them apart. So many bloody, bruised, split, fractured faces waiting for them to die. So much, so much, so much. Too much to process, too much to fear, too much to regret. Natasha's lip began to quiver. A tear pooled in her eye and spilled over onto her dust-covered cheek. "Wait." She flicked her eyes to the ground and another tear splashed onto the tar. The gritty asphalt dug into her knees and tears continued to roll one after another down her face.

Varga flared one corner of his lip in a breathy laugh. Szabo snapped his eyes away from Clint. "What is it?" he barked. Varga waived his chin at Natasha. Szabo took a step closer to her and studied the terror and panic in her eyes. He shook his head. "You are getting less and less impressive by the hour, Agent Romanoff. And to think, I heard such wonderful tales. The infamous Black Widow, capable of getting whatever or whoever she wants, and all wrapped up in the body of a Siren. You disappoint, my dear. You should have left this business to the men."

"Please," Natasha stammered though trembling lips. "Just . . . just let us say goodbye."

"You waste my time, little girl."

"Clint there's something I need to say to you."

Szabo gritted his teeth and trained his gun back on Clint. "Ten, nine, eight . . ." he began to count down, drawing in a steadying breath as he prepared savor the moment of revenge.

"I just . . . I need to know . . ." Natasha trembled. Szabo curled his lip in disgust. One last tear ran down Natasha's chin and she snapped up head up. Her lips sat still, her face completely void of emotion. "Up or down?"

Clint kept his eyes on Szabo. "Like you even have to ask."

Natasha took the three fist-sized metal disks clasped between her fingers and pressed the center buttons. Distracted by her little sob show, neither Szabo nor a single of his guards had seen her slip them from her belt. With a hiss, the disks began spewing thick white smoke, and Natasha threw them in a circle around her and Clint. By the time András and Zoltán had time to react, their captives had vanished in the smoke.

Natasha crouched low, her chin almost touching the asphalt. In a split second she changed direction, tumbling to the side as a hail of bullets rained down on the place she had just vacated. The sharp gun flashes illuminated the cloud of smoke, increasing it's blinding effect. This smoke was formulated solely to shield, not to debilitate, so Natasha was able to breath easily beneath its shroud. Scratching her wrists along a blade from her tool belt, the rope severed and fell away. She braced her bare fingertips on tar and cocked her head up, staying low to the ground. Natasha advanced toward the ring of guards, sweeping one leg out in front of her then twisting her torso and sweeping the other. With her eyes closed for comfort in the blinding smoke, Natasha's proximity sense alerted her as she approached the line of guards. She repositioned her body and took a breath.

Natasha barreled into the guards, sweeping one leg, then the other out along the ground in front of her. Angry, confused shouts called out around her adding to the cacophony of groans and gunfire filling the street. Bullets few blindly. Several guards screamed and groaned as stray ammunition struck them in the legs, or back, or thwapped against their vests.

The last guard in her line found his feet taken out from under him. Natasha caught him as he fell and let his momentum carry him over her shoulder and onto the ground. A slow wheeze gurgled from his mouth as the air rushed from his lungs.

Natasha could feel another body approaching. She whipped around with her elbow out and jabbed him in the sternum, then sent the same elbow flying up to smash his nose. With a kick she sent him careening backward. Two consecutive thuds echoed out as he took his nearest comrade down with him.

Another fist flew at her in the thinning smoke. She grabbed it, twisted its owner's shoulder out of its socket, then kicked his feet out behind him as he screamed and threw him to the ground. _Enough of this. _Natasha dodged a blow and took a microsecond to orient herself. The balls of her feet dug into the ground as she sprinted a few steps. She launched herself into the air and came down on her palms, flying backward and landing perfectly on her feet.

A guard made his way out of the smoke locked eyes with her. Before he could even raise his weapon, Natasha had reached down and retrieved one of the tiny black firearms holstered at her thigh. The man fell to the ground and Natasha sprinted over to the tall brick pillar guarding the far corner of the playground. She dug her boot into the wrought iron fence and pulled herself up onto its flat stone top.

When the smoke engulfed them, Clint drew his feet beneath him and scrunched up on his powerful legs. He bounded up as high as he could jump and landed heavily a few feet forward. Furious shouts rattled through the air immediatly beside his ears. Clint slipped from the rope and swung a wild blow in the smoke, clocking Szabo in the back of the head. "You're mine, you little rat!" Szabo screamed. He was close enough that Clint could feel the warmth of his breath as he shouted. Two rough, scar-torn hands lurched out from the smoke. Clint barely managed to slip out of András's grip. _Time to get out of the smoke. _Clint coiled up and launched into another jump. His boots came down on the closest guard's hip. The man lost balance and shouted as he crashed into his neighbor. Clint pushed off of his human springboard and crashed onto the next man's head. The man bobbed beneath him under the strain, and Clint immediately transferred himself onto the next closest head. Before that guard could buckle under the weight, Clint pushed off and launched himself toward the building.

He broke free of the smoke cloud in mid-air, and landed his hands and feet all touching the rubble pile. Clint scrambled up the tallest piece of rubble and jumped up to the break in the wall. His fingers wrapped around the brittle sheetrock falling from the bottom of the hole torn in the wall. Dangling from the second story, Clint swung his legs and kicked away the long piece of rubble to prevent any ambitious guards from following him. He continued to swing his legs, gathering momentum as he flexed his bulky arms and hauled himself up, hand by hand, to the third floor.

He reached the horizontal beams and corrugated steel suspending the third floor and grabbed on. Several bullets whizzed around him as he somersaulted onto the carpet. Clint darted behind the the intact patch of wall and paused, waiting for the fire to stop. When it did, he grabbed the handgun tucked against the small of his back and swung back out, unloading the entire magazine on the small pool of guards forming at the base of the building.

Clint ducked back behind the wall. _The smoke is almost gone. Time for the big guns._ Clint darted across the opening in the wall. The guards opened fire and Clint kicked his feet out in front of him. He slid across the short carpet, grabbing his bow and quiver as he went.

The momentum of the slide sent Clint slamming into the azure blue wall, but he quickly rebounded and rolled on his back behind the nearest cubicle. He shifted his weight and the carpet squelched beneath his feet. Clint wriggled his toes, kept perfectly dry by the rubber soles of his shoes. _Ha_, he though. _Combat boots._

Clint peeked out from the edge of the cubicle. The whole patch of floor closest to the whole was soaked. He dipped his fingers down and brought them to his nose. _Water. Water, water everywhere, but not a drop to -_ Clint notched an arrow and rose to his feet. He let it loose as he crossed back to his original position at the jagged edge of the wall. He sent a volley of arrow out the hole, using the time to search for the source of the water. A shiny copper pipe stuck out near where he stood. The explosion had melted some of the metal back over the severed pipe, but a few small gaps still spewed water into the building.

Clint clicked a sequence of buttons concealed on the hand grip of his bow. His quiver rotated with a mechanic hum and clicked as the arrowhead set into place. He ducked out around the wall and sent the arrow directly into the center of the guards trying to fire upon him. They cocked their heads momentarily as the arrow lay on the concrete; their enemy had yet to miss. Suddenly, the arrowhead blinked red and detonated, sending the group of guards flying backwards or running for cover.

Clint used the short reprieve to bend down and examine the pipe. His hands couldn't quite close the circumference as he fought to bend it. Clint laid his bow beside him and braced his legs on the slick carpet until he was all but laying parallel to the pipe. He gritted his teeth and puffed hot air from his nose as he pushed. The pipe groaned and bent out slowly toward the street. Clint grabbed his bow and used one end to bend the melted fragments away from the mouth of the pipe. As he did, more and more water began to gush onto the street below.

The first few guards to get wet looked up. Those who had been part of Clint's earlier water attack reeled backwards as the drops landed on them, but calmed again as they felt that the water was cool against their skin.

_It's not enough. _Clint looked at the suspended ceiling above him. _But if this pipe supplies the sprinkler system, I bet there's one above me too. _He grabbed a nearby chair, then pushed the ceiling tiles aside and went to work.

Natasha balanced easily on the wide brick pillar. She spun and spun, hopping from one foot to the other and dodging all the bullets that the TPE was throwing at her. Her gun clicked empty and she instinctively grabbed a new clip from her belt and clicked it into place. A group of three guards charged at her, the first two which she was able to take out with her gun. As the final man neared, Natasha flipped over his head and landed on her feet on the sidewalk behind him. She snapped his neck and let him fall. Another guard charged, and she shot her hand up to deflect his firearm. The gun fired a pulsing round of bullets into the air. Natasha jabbed the butt of the gun into her attacker's face, then stomped on his throat when he hit the ground. His backup ducked out of their cover, ready to attack from all sides. Natasha grabbed the submachine gun from the man at her feet and fired back.

"Clint!" she said over the constant pulse of gunfire. "Where the hell are you?" Three arrows whizzed around her, landing squarely in the backs and necks of the guards circling her.

"Right here," his voice replied in her ear.

Natasha's eyes followed the trajectory the arrows had come from and she glimpsed Clint poking out of the hole in the third floor wall. Her eyes immediately turned back to the pick-up sitting still on the side of the road. Another guard had climbed inside, and was stuffing another shell into the rocket launcher. Natasha reached down to her belt, but a meaty hand caught her arm. The guard behind her took her by the biceps and lifted her off the ground. She struggled against his grip and kicked her legs wildly, all the time glancing at the truck.

Natasha aimed a heel kick into the man's sternum, forcing all the air from her lungs. She threw her head back, clunking her skull against his, then stuffed two hard kicks into his gut. The man let go, and Natasha threw a spinning kick from the air, catching him in the side of the head. She landed on all fours, the immediatly swung around to face the truck, reaching for her belt as she went. A throwing knife buried itself in the back of the man with the rocket launcher. His weight and the angle of his fall caused him to pull the trigger as he fell. The rocket launcher fired into the truck, which went up in flames in a matter of seconds.

Natasha threw herself to the ground as the pick-up exploded. The sound of the blast rung in her ears and even from this distance she could feel the heat on her face. Foul black smoke floated up from the wreck.

Natasha made it to her knees before she glimpsed a grenade sailing through the air. She flattened herself back onto the ground, and the sandy pavement grated on her chin. An arrow shot through the air. Its shaft caught the dark green metal canister by the handle and dragged it from Natasha. The arrow streaked through the playground and landed in the brick wall of the school. The grenade detonated as it hit, shattering the windows and blowing a wide hole in the brick.

As she laid their on the ground, a guard fell onto Natasha's back. She rolled him off to see and arrow shaft sticking out on his chest.

"Sorry," said Clint.

"Where are these guys coming from?!" Natasha said as another guard fired at her. He quickly fell under an arrow. "We need to finish this and _quickly_."

"I think I can help you out with that."

Natasha followed the arrow backward again, to find that Clint had made his way up to the roof, were he stood on the corner opposite the bomb's destruction.

He nodded pointed to the water spewing from the second and third floors of the office building and dousing the side of the street. "Light 'em up, Natasha."

Natasha balled up her fists and felt the spider bites activate on her wrists. The gauntlets practically hummed with energy, and the contact points glowed to life on the back of her hands. "Cover me."

She ran to the other side of the street, toward the largest concentration of guards. A man ran at her and she launched herself up, somersaulting over him and landing gracefully at the edge of the puddle Clint had created. Natasha touched the spider bites to the water and watched ten guards jitter and shake and collapse on the ground.

"How many are left?" she asked.

"Looks like four, plus Szabo and Varga and a couple of zombies who just couldn't resist living to see round three. Uh-oh," he added.

"What is it?"

Clint stood on the corner of the roof, scanning over the smoke-filled, body-strewn street. Colors moved in the reflection of the monkey bar dome on the playground. To anyone else they would have seemed random and useless, but Clint took the angles of the scratched up dome of metal bars and reassembled the image in his mind. "Looks like we've got a straggler. There's a kid still on the playground, huddled up behind the brick pillar you were standing on earlier."

"Just leave him there. He'll be better of if he just stays hidden."

"Roger tha-" Clint cut himself off. "Damn, Varga's spotted him. Tasha, he'll kill that kid just for the fun of it."

"So stop him."

Clint fired a hail of arrows down at Varga's wiry form slinking across the little battlefield. "I - I can't. He's good. He's dodging everything I throw at him. Tasha, you've got to move the kid, now!"

Natasha rolled her neck and pinched her eyes to wake herself up, then broke into a sprint across the street. She reached the curb and used it as a step up to vault over the fence. Her hands caught on the topmost horizontal bar and tore painfully through the gloves and bandages as she twisted around the rectangular iron bar. She landed with a thump on the wood chips and looked up. A young girl, maybe five or six years old, sat plastered against the brick pillar. Her face was pale and slack. Her lips hung slightly open, but her throat remained paralyzed with fright. Her fear-filled eyes grew impossibly wide as Natasha dropped down in front of her.

_"Come on,"_ said Natasha, but the girl didn't move. _"Come on!"_

She shied away, pressing her tumbles of khaki hair closer to the brick.

Natasha pressed her finger to the ear radio. "Clint, how am I doing on time?"

"Not great," he puffed, and continued to shoot at Varga. "Tasha, you've got to get out of there."

Natasha studied the little girl's petrified face. She stretched out her hands slowly and spoke as gently as she could manage. _"Sweetie listen to me. I know this is scary but you can't stay here anymore. We have to go now, but I've got you. I'll keep you safe, I promise."_

The little girl studied Natasha for a second more, then slowly outstretched her hand. Natasha took it and pulled her away from the wall. She held the little girl on her hip, and she immediatly wrapped her hands tightly around Natasha's neck.

_"You're being very brave,"_ Natasha whispered. _"Now hold on tight." _Natasha stuck her foot in the fence again and used her free hand to haul herself and the girl up onto the top of the pillar. Without a second hand, Natasha was forced to sit on the pillar and swing her legs over, then jump down to the side street running along this side of the school.

"Varga's closing in on your six," Clint said as Natasha went to jump onto the sidewalk. She turned behind her and jumped down as a bullet went flying past her head. With the extra weight on her side, Natasha faltered on the landing. Her ankle caught and she tumbled to the ground. Her forearm shot out to shield the little girl from the fall, and scraped painfully against the street.

Natasha landed on her back and screamed. Spears of pain shot through her ankle, which only got worse as she tried to stand up. "Shit!"

"What's wrong?"

"My ankle's shot."

"Varga's closing in."

"Clint - !" Natasha didn't know what else to say. Zoltán Varga loomed over her, gun drawn, and she held out her handgun to match.

"I don't have a shot," said Clint. A second later, and arrow landed in the concrete a few yards from Natasha's head. She saw the arrowhead blink red, and her hands flew up to cover the little girl's ears. The arrow exploded, sending a wave of air and some fragments of molten plastic flying at them.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Trying to get his attention," said Clint. Varga looked up to the roof. Clint held his bow in the air and shouted as loudly as he could. "You don't want you little showdown with her, Varga! You want one with me! We all know you could out-shoot her with your eyes closed, but wouldn't you like a challenge? You really think you're better than the Hawkeye, Varga? Let's see it!"

"Very well," Varga growled, and took a few steps off the side street and onto the main road. He raised his gun up at Clint, who drew back his bow. Natasha struggled to her feet and hobbled a few steps away from Varga.

"Let's have a gentlemen's match now, Varga. Best shot wins."

"Oh believe me, I agree."

"Three! Two! . . ."

A split second before they went to shoot, Varga flinched. He drew a second gun from a hip holder and whipped his head toward Natasha.

She heard the gunshot first. She heard it and though nothing had happened.

Then the small, strong arms went slack on her neck.

The tumbles of long khaki hair fell back.

Her body fell limply against Natasha's arm, resting protectively on the little girl's back. Her wide icy eyes froze in glassy terror. A prefect red circle marked the center of her forehead.

All the color drained from Natasha's face. Colors streaked against her vision. Her teeth chattered and her throat went dry. She blinked. And again. No. It didn't. It couldn't have. She could not have let this happen. She wanted to be sick. "Natasha," Clint called over the radio, but she couldn't hear him.

She screamed. Natasha screamed. At first she thought it was only in her head, until she felt the burning in her throat. She hadn't screamed like that since she was eight years old. She tried to catch the sound before it left her throat, but it wouldn't stop. Her knees hit the pavement and she might have cried if she'd had any tears to let loose. She could hear her heartbeat in her ears and smell the metallic tang of blood in the air. She could feel the warm little flecks of blood spattered on her skin.

"Natasha!"

A whisper of Clint's shout came through, but it was eclipsed by another voice, on she hadn't heard in quite a while. _Emotion is weakness, Natalia, _the Red Room whispered in her mind._ It tries to expand outward, exploding around you and causing only harm. You can change that. There is a black hole in your heart. Let it take the pain away; let all you emotion implode within you, never to escape._

She did. She let the pain drain away where she alway put it, in the black hole in the center of her heart. Except this time, it wouldn't go down. Natasha gagged. She could feel the pain, the rage rippling out from the center of her chest. It hurt. It killed. She was finally drowning in the pain. _No Clint, _THIS _is compromised. _

And she made a very important decision.


	28. Love is for Children Part 2

A hand clamped down on her shoulder. "NATASHA!" Clint screamed beside her. She looked up with wide, petrified eyes. As the trance began to fade, Natasha looked around. A rope hanging taut between the roof of the building and the pillar, anchored by an arrow on each end. Clint must have zip-lined down to her. The last guards closing in.

Clint could feel her trembling. "Natasha, snap out of it. I know this is a rough one, but we have to make it through this. You told me we both had to make it through this one."

Natasha kept her eyes straight ahead. "Don't make promises you can't keep."

Clint whipped around and shot at the approaching guards. He knelt down in front of her and gently took the little girl's body from her arms. "The S&R team will be here any minute, but I need your help to make it that long. Natasha please." He laid the girl down on the sidewalk and held Natasha by her blood-spattered hand. "Can you do that?"

Natasha nodded slowly, and let Clint help her up. Natasha pulled two short throwing knifes from her belt and gripped them tightly in her hands. She braced herself as best she could, and let the nearest guard approach her. Natasha jumped on top of him, jabbing the two knifes in to his chest and falling backward with him, so she landed on his rib cage.

Clint made his way to the center of the street, spiraling slowly to take in a panoramic view of the battlefield. He retrieved arrows from some of his earlier targets and fired back into the remaining few guards. In the seconds between loosing each arrow, Clint's eyes flicked back to Natasha. What the hell had just happened? He had never seen her react emotionally during a fight. That was her style, always calm and collected not matter the situation. Anyone who saw her fight and lived to tell about it would call her heartless, a machine, but Clint knew better. She put her feelings somewhere very deep and far away. She was able to bury her emotions in a way Clint couldn't begin to imagine, but he'd grown accustomed to it. No matter what mess they got themselves into, even one as ugly as this, he knew she'd be there, a rock never swaying from the mission at hand.

But now? He never imagined that she'd crack, never contemplated that it was possible she might freeze. Not over something like this. That girl's tragic fate had been horrible for sure, but Natasha has seen worse. Natasha had _done_ worse. Usually though, she saved the screaming for her sleep.

Clint shuttered. He couldn't stop replaying Natasha's scream in his mind. Over and over he heard the pain and rage rattling out on her voice, and he couldn't wake her up and tell her it was just a nightmare. He watched her, her movements still controlled as ever but tinged with a wildness, a feral anger. A shiver ran up Clint's spine. The movement caused his arm to twitch ever so slightly, and his arrow grazed just shy of its target. Clint flicked his eyes back toward Natasha.

"Natasha, on your left!"

Natasha through a flurry of punches and kicks at the guard. She tripped him and slammed his head down twice against the pavement.

All he knew was that Varga would pay. Whatever he had done to her, whatever Clint wasn't seeing, Varga would pay. Clint could feel that slight tinge of uneasiness evaporate as his blood began to boil. "Where are you, you little weasel?"

A cold hand gripped the back of Clint's neck. "Put a leash on your cat," András Szabo spat in his ear. Clint tried to turn but Szabo held his head firmly in place. "Or should I say, put a web on your little pet spider before she gets squashed." Clint threw an elbow behind him and tried to wrench himself from András's grip. The butt of Szabo's gun came down on Clint's temple and his vision blurred severely. He could just make out the orange flashes of Natasha and the last two guards engaged in a fire fight. The sound of the guns melted away beneath the ringing in his ears.

András Szabo touched the barrel of his gun to the back of Clint's head. Clint gritted his teeth. "Eh, eh, eh," András reminded him. "That's not my style." He threw the gun aside and lifted Clint's mostly limp body up in the air. His combat boots grated on the tar as the rose up into the air. "What did I tell you? Point blank."

Szabo's hand flew forward and a blade emerged from his fist. The knife slipped in between the plastic ribs of Clint's uniform and plunged into his side. Clint's eyes went wide as the icy pain flashed through his abdomen. András went to remove the knife, and then paused. He adjusted his grip on the handle and wrenched the blade sideways. A breathy choke gurgled from Clint's throat.

András released Clint's neck and threw him to the ground.

"I said point blank. I never said it couldn't be slow." András's heavy boot caught Clint in the ribs and rolled him onto his side, facing the flashes of Natasha's fire fight. "I would hate for you to miss this, if you're even still conscious."

Clint's eyes blinked slowly as he fought to stay awake. "Natasha . . ," he breathed as his dark, warm blood began to trickle onto the pavement.

"Clint!" Natasha screamed, but her voice came out as a hoarse gravely shout. She couldn't feel. Her limbs, her heart, her fingertips, they all went numb. "No. I will not lose any more today!"

She sat with her back pressed against the still-smoking skeleton of the pick-up. Gunfire pulsed in her ears as the final two guards attempted to finish her off. Bullets flew around her, pinging off of the wrought iron fence and sailing around the playground. She ducked around the hood of the truck once more and returned fire. The trigger clicked and she reached down for another magazine. It wasn't there. She switched back to her other gun and found it empty too.

Her head fell back against the truck's sooty black tire well. She rolled her eyes over to look at Clint. His eyes were still open, but she could see the pool of blood spreading out around him. If she moved out of her shelter behind the truck, the two guards would strike her down instantly. On her ankle, she would barely make it three feet before the bullets clustered in her back. _Can this really be it?_

Another explosion interrupted her thoughts. She looked around but no new smoke rose in the sky. Peeking as far around the truck as she dared, Natasha saw the office building's thin basement windows clouding with smoke. Someone howled in the distance.

The gunfire paused as the two guards looked to see what had happened. She heard their footsteps march closer to her position. Across the truck's undercarriage, she could see two pairs of scuffed, dampened boots waiting by the opposite tire. Boosting herself on her good leg and crawling with the other, Natasha pulled herself up onto the roof of the truck. The brittle metal groaned and buckled under her weight, threatening to give in, but it didn't matter. By the time the two guards heard the sound and looked up, she was on top of them.

Natasha shot herself off the bowing roof, dragging the foul-smelling ash from the explosion with her. With one knee up to protect her ankle, she came down on the two guards. The first she clawed in the throat, the second she grabbed by the ammunition belt as her momentum sent them crashing to the ground. As they began to react, she struggled to knock their guns away. Two on one wasn't the most favorable scenario, but as long as she kept them on the ground, her odds were only partially hindered by her injury.

Not that she registered much of that. Rage and training took over as she struggled against the final guards, one thought hanging on her mind: _Clint. Get to Clint._ Everything else went blank. Sweat beaded on her forehead as she fought. She could feel the raw wild power racing through her, and she let it. It felt so freeing, so powerful. Why didn't she fight this way more often? _Because,_ she thought, her rationality struggling to be heard over the chaos in her mind, _emotion is how you make mistakes. _

A fist came out of nowhere, smashing into her jaw with a hideous crack. Colorful blotches floated across her vision. Two more quick blows struck her sternum, and she gasped for breath. _Can this really be it? _she asked herself again. She tried to take a steadying breath, to look deep and find her calm strength again. She reached out within herself, looking for strength, looking for energy, trying to feel the powerful heat in her bones, but all she found was cold. A calm, sad though replied back, _maybe it can._

András Szabo touched his shoe to Clint's chin and tilted his head up to face his own. Clint remained silent, teeth gritted against the pain, but glared back into Szabo's eyes. "Still hanging in there, are we?"

"This . . . isn't . . . over," Clint managed to spit back. A large crash clattered behind him, but Clint couldn't turn more than a few inches without sending a fresh stab of pain shooting through his ribs. He could, however, see András smile a devious, wicked smile.

"Yes, my dear boy," said Szabo, "I think it is."

Zoltán Varga stumbled out of the alleyway where Clint and Natasha had fled the night before. He coughed, still choking on smoke from the explosion. As he staggered into the edges on Clint's view, Clint let out a weak gasp. The entire right side of Varga's face glowed red with the patchwork of a burn. His skin boiled and blistered; some places seemed even charred. His hands and forearms bore the same pattern, where they had rushed up to try to guard Varga from the blast. Bits of melted fishing line clung to his vest.

"No . . ." Clint whispered. _After all this . . . _

Varga stumbled forward with his back hunched over and his legs spread wide. A ribbed black plastic case dangled between his long, gangly arms. He dropped the case in front of Szabo.

"Excellent work Zoltán."

"Believe me," he replied, not taking his eyes off of Clint, "The pleasure was all mine."

András knelt on the ground before the case. "You didn't tamper with any of my property, did you?" he asked Clint, who remained motionless beside him. András flipped the large plastic latches and threw open the lid. The bright yellow plastic shone inside. András lifted the smaller case out onto the ground before him. The larger black case he threw aside, letting the gray eagle design skid across the tar.

With one finger, András rotated the tiny metal wheels, clicking the four-digit combination into place. He gentle lifted the lid back and breathed a sigh of relief. Six cartridges sat inside, each one made of metal bands shaped into a sphere, with a dull greenish-yellow powder suspended inside. "Perfect," said András. He turned to Clint. "And to think, for all the trouble you two caused me, we're barely even behind schedule. You did cost me all my muscle, which I suppose could slow me down, but I'll have them all replaced soon enough."

The case clipped shut, and Szabo rose, lifting it easily between his hands. András nodded to Varga. "We shall proceed as planned. It's what István would want. And I will not fail him now."

They walked forward, leaving Clint on the ground. Varga made sure his foot caught on Clint's hip as he stepped over him.

Not more than three paces away from Clint, Szabo froze. Two long, slender hands descended from above and placed themselves, fingertips down, on each side of András's face. Ever so slowly, he tilted his head up to see Natasha suspended from Clint's zip-line, with her knees wrapped over the thin black cable. With all their chattering and taunting of Clint, Szabo and Varga had failed to see Natasha finish of the last two guards. They had failed to see her swinging along the fence, feet dangling, moving hand over hand, as her black uniform helped her blend into the dark iron bars. As they checked the case, neither one had looked up to see her shimmying toward them on the cable.

Szabo opened his mouth to speak or shout, and those long slender hands twisted sideways. The dull crunch of his neck snapped out before the words could reach his lips. Natasha pushed Szabo's body forward as she let go, directing it away from where Clint lay. The bulky mass hit the ground with a thud. As she hung there, Natasha met Varga's eyes.

"He never was very creative," Varga said. He picked up the case and gave a little salute. "Catch me if you can, Princess." Varga turned and sauntered down the street.

Natasha felt her tool belt. Empty. She swung her body until her hands could clasp onto the cable, then drew her feet up in an off-center handstand and lowered them until she hung toward the ground. Natasha let go, landing as gently as she could on the tar. Even so, shards of pain shot up her leg and she stumbled gracelessly onto her hands and knees. She crawled the few feet remaining between her and Clint and knelt beside him.

"Clint?" she said with a nervous tremor in her voice. "Clint?"

His face looked dangerously pale and beads of sweat collected in his short blond hair and ran along the furrows on his forehead. His skin felt clammy to the touch. Natasha pulled off his shades and exhaled as his eyes fluttered open. Clint rolled his head slowly to the side. His hand slid off his body and flopped on the pavement, landing with one finger pointed toward Varga's retreating figure.

"I know," Natasha whispered, "I've got nothing . . ." Her eyes caught on Clint's bow, and arrow already notched on the string. She couldn't draw it, maybe not even on her best day, but certainly not now. Still, she picked it up and wrapped her fingers around the grip. The string bit through her gloves as she pulled the bow back. It barely budged. She bit her lip and pulled harder. Her arms shook as she went.

Clint reached up and managed to lift a bloody hand up and grab onto her elbow. One look told her she'd tried hard enough. Natasha let go. The arrow went skidding across the ground and Natasha lowered the bow. She hung her head as Varga disappeared from view.

"Can you move? This scene with attract a lot of attention." She hauled Clint's arm over her shoulder and together, one step at a time, they made their way back to the alley. Placing one hand on the side of the building, she guided them around the corner. They slumped down together against the wall, with Natasha's back against the cement foundation.

Natasha wrapped her arms around Clint's thick torso, interlacing her fingers and pressing hard against his wound. Each erratic pump of his heart sent more dark, sticky blood flowing through her fingers.

"Natasha . . ." he managed to whisper, but no more words came. Bloody drool trickled from the corner of his mouth.

She clutched him tighter to try and stall the bleeding. At least that's what she told herself. _So this is it. This is compromised. This is what it's like to hit the ground. No parachute, no help, just you and the dirt. Splat._

This was it, her worst nightmare coming true. She couldn't loose Clint, not now. He was her only link to the real world, the only person she truly trusted to have her back, the only person who knew anything about her. Without Clint, she would drown.

Icy terror coursed through her veins, making her heart beat rapidly against her bruised ribs. As she hugged Clint tightly to her, she wished so badly she could give some of those beats to him. "Please . . ." she whispered. "Please." _God, I'm so _stupid._ We could have had this years ago. Me and my stubbornness, me and my rules. 'It'l just hurt more for whoever goes second?' _She couldn't imagine anything hurting more than this. _Please Clint,_ she willed him, _tell me you love me, tell crappy jokes, take me dancing. Hell if we get through this I'll even let you buy me a teddy bear or something._

She could feel his pulse continue to slow in the dark gooey blood pulsing against her fingers, could feel him slipping away. The medical kit was likely destroyed in Varga's explosion, not that anything in there could help Clint now. He needed surgery, immediatly. If the S.H.I.E.L.D. team didn't arrive soon . . .

There had to be something she could do. Anything.

The notes formed in her throat before she could stop them. Slowly, quietly, she added the words to a sad Russian lullaby. She didn't want Clint to sleep of course, but she couldn't seem to make herself do anything else.Спи, младенец мой прекрасный . . .

_ . . . Sleep, good boy, my beautiful_

_ . . . I will tell you fairy tales /And sing you little songs_

_ . . . You will look like a hero . . . I will hurry to accompany you _

_. . . How many secret bitter tears/ Will I shed that night! /Sleep, my angel, calmly, sweetly, _

_. . . I will die from longing. . . I will pray the whole day long, _

_. . . When preparing yourself for the dangerous fight / Please remember me/ Sleep, good boy, my beautiful . . . _ Баюшки-баю.

The song seemed to roll on and on, each verse sliding easily off Natasha's tongue. The words felt good, familiar, although it had been years since she had sung this tune.

Clint's head rolled to the side; he'd finally lost his last shreds of consciousness. Natasha held him tighter, holding her breath between each of his heartbeats, desperately afraid that another would not follow. Somehow though, she hadn't quite lost the lullaby. She continued it, her voice now barely more than a whisper. Natasha didn't stop until the rotary whirling of the S.H.I.E.L.D. heliplanes broke the silence overhead.

Six hours later, Natasha stood at a reenforced glass window looking into Clint's room in the Helicarrier's medical bay. Her crutches leaned on the wall beside her and she balanced gingerly on her bulky black walking cast.

The S & R team had arrived just as Clint's pulse dropped dangerously low. Several emergency blood transfusions, including a final live one from an agent with the same blood type, had gotten Clint back to the helicarrier. For the first few hours of surgery, Natasha had refused treatment for her own injuries. Finally, as the exhaustion and pain began to overwhelm her, the medics had convinced her to let them help. Many stitches, bandages and a few x-rays later, they had assigned her a bed and ordered her to rest. She couldn't. When the doctors wheeled Clint out of surgery, she was waiting. She hadn't moved from the window, watching Clint's heart rate monitor through the glass as it counted out slow, steady beats.

"You can go in now, if you like," a kindly medic said as she passed behind Natasha.

Natasha dropped her gaze to the floor. "Thank you, but I have someone else I need to see."

"Go back to the medical bay, Agent Romanoff," Fury said without looking up as she burst into his office.

"Too afraid to deal with me?" she asked as she hobbled up to his desk, braced by one of the crutches.

"I was thinking more the other way around. This little chat can wait for a week or two. That debriefing I mentioned is the first priority on my schedule as soon as Agent Barton is cleared for it. Until then, I have to focus on containing the mess you two made." Fury paused. "I'm glad he pulled through." He turned back to the computer platform built into his desk and shuffled several digital files around. "Until then, you should be resting, and yes, that's an order. The medics are done with you."

"No, actually they're not."

Fury looked up from the screen and raised his eyebrow. Natasha marched the last few remaining steps to the desk and braced her hands on its edge.

"You want to know what happened, Director Fury? You dying to know what went wrong? I'll give you a hint."

She handed him a single sheet of paper, folded over in two places. The seemingly permanent smug and annoyed expression fell away from Fury's face. He swiped the files off the screen of his desk and met her eyes. "Natasha. . ."

She remained quite.

"And Barton?"

"He doesn't know, and he's not going to."

"It's been a long day, for all of us. You sure you don't want some more time to think this through?"

"Just sign the damn form Nick!"

"Look -"

"Please. Please sign it."

Fury placed a pen on the line, then pulled it away. He glanced up at her ever unreadable face and slowly wove the ink into his signature, then stamped his S.H.I.E.L.D. seal beside it. He waved the paper dry and folded it up, but flicked it away, out of Natasha's reach.

"Natasha. . ."

That's when he saw it, the slight tremble in her outstretched hand. Her mask seemed to crack every so slightly, and something buried in those haunted eyes told him it was sincere. Fury rested his head in his empty and sighed, handing the form over to her. "Dismissed."

Two days later, Natasha stood at the window, looking in at Clint as he slept. The color had returned to his face, and the nurses said he'd even woken up a few times.

"You really can go in and see him," said the same kindly nurse as she approached.

"No," Natasha replied, looking in the other direction, "I can't."

**A/N: Just for the record this is NOT the end.**

**Also the song Natasha sings is called Cossack Lullaby. If any of you are familiar with the Russian language and have corrections or a better suggestion, message me! **

**Also, I feel like I don't say this enough, but THANK YOU for reading!**


	29. Rio Again

**A/N: Hey everybody! Some of you said the ending of the last chapter was a bit fuzzy. It was supposed to be vague, but not to the point of being confusing. Sorry! That's what happens when yours truly thinks she's being all sneaky, but is really just causing problems. Anyway, here is a little addendum to the last chapter that hopefully will clear up the dynamic left between Clint and Natasha. Or maybe it'll do nothing. Crossing my fingers for the former. Between this little scene and the chapter to follow, I think it will make sense. If not, please review or PM and let me know that I'm being obnoxious and unhelpful. **

After several more afternoons spent staring through the window, Natasha finally managed to force herself over the threshold and into the sterile, linoleum-tiled room. Clint lay quietly in his bed with the thick rosy sheets tucked up tightly beneath his arms. The heart monitor continued to beep, sending a sharp spike across the screen with each pulse. A hanging saline bag dripped quietly into the IV tube attached to Clint's arm. He rolled his head towards her and gave a weak, groggy smile.

Natasha tried to return it but found her gaze fixated on the colorful flecks in the linoleum floor. Part of her wanted to rush over to him and grip his head in her hands and let her expression tell him how happy she was that he was alive. But she couldn't. She couldn't quite look him in the eye.

November 18, 2012

A cool breeze blew off the water, washing over Clint and Natasha where they sat on the deck. It lent a slight chill to the mild Brazilian night, and Natasha pulled her gray jacket tighter against her arms. Waves lapped hypnotically against the Helicarrier's hull, mixing with the dull murmur of men and equipment as the night crew worked to resupply what the dock workers assumed to be a standard aircraft carrier.

Clint and Natasha ignored the sounds and the distant shouts in mixed Portuguese and English, letting all the noise merge into the waves. They hadn't moved since Natasha came to find him. The stars had shifted and the moon had dropped low. Their legs had fallen asleep on the textured metal surface of the carrier, but they remained still.

Neither pair of eyes left the city lights glittering across the bay. Rio de Janeiro sat tucked in an inlet, with low mountains rising up behind it. The sand of a wide beach arced around the water, forming a barrier between the ocean and the city. A row of massive lamps followed the same curve, letting their light flood out over the beach and streak across the water toward the Helicarrier resting on the opposite shore. Behind the lamps, the peppermint blotches of a highway flashed by, bustling even in the early morning darkness. The lights reflected on the windows of the hotels and high-rises that lined the beach, making their surfaces glitter. The rest of the city sprawled out behind them, reaching in every direction until one of the hills blocked its path.

The whole city seemed to pulse with light. Shades of turquoise and emerald mixed with the incandescent orange glow, as if every building was made of glow-sticks.

"Nowhere is ever going to look quite like Budapest did that night," said Natasha, remembering the stately air and moonlit glow of the Hungarian capital.

"No," said Clint. His eyes remained fixed across the bay, flicking back and fourth as they tried to take in the explosion of detail that was the city. "I doubt even Budapest would look like it did that night."

Natasha closed her eyes, imagining that the wind on her skin came up not off the salty ocean, but the river, and seeing the white city lights glistening on the water. The green dress. Clint's strong arms around her. That feeling like she was flying away. "It probably never looked that way. I doubt the lights were as pure or the wind was a sweet or the night was as perfect as I remember it being." She smiled to herself, reveling in the memory. "You know, brain chemistry and whatnot. And it was before . . . everything."

"Yeah. Now the place is tinged with a few too many memories."

Natasha opened her eyes, letting the image of Budapest fade away. She turned her attention back to the bay, but found herself not longer able to focus on the reflections in the water. Instead she turned to Clint and studied the dark shadows on his face as he gazed out at the city. "You must have known," she said after a while. "I'm good, but my mask has never worked on you. Not all the way. On some level, buried somewhere in your mind, you must have noticed."

"Hawkeye or not, at the end of the day we see what we want to see."

"What did you want to see?"

"I . . . I don't know."

"I don't believe you."

Clint tossed his head back. "I feel so stupid."

"Don't. That's not want I meant. You couldn't have -"

"But I did. You're right, I did notice. I saw all these little changes in you, but it never crossed my mind - ." He paused, drawing in a long breath and turning it into a quick, breathy laugh. "I thought . . . God I'm such an idiot."

Natasha placed her hand over Clint's where it sat gripping the edge of the deck.

"I thought you were happy," he said finally. "I thought _I_ made you happy. I noticed things, little quarks, little cracks, but - I thought you were finally letting loose, finally letting yourself be more than the Black Widow. You know, at peace, at home. Or some other optimistic bullshit like that."

"Clint, none of that is wrong. And I was. Happy, I mean. You made me happy. You _make_ me happy. That's something I used to think I'd lost."

"And the . . . the baby. Did that make you happy?"

"Try panicked. More panicked and scared than I've felt on any mission, during any fight."

"So why didn't you let me in? Let me help?"

Natasha reached over and lifted Clint's t-shirt away from his ribs. Even in the dim light on the deck she could make out the scar, an irregular circle bisected with two long surgical incisions. "Because as it was, you almost didn't wake up."

Clint lifted her hand away, letting the shirt fall back over his side. "That's irrelevant -"

"Irrelevant? If I hadn't made so many mistakes, you wouldn't have had to leave the roof to rescue me. You never would have come within Szabo's reach, assuming we were even in that situation at all. I couldn't tell you, not then."

"Not that it would have mattered much, since you were just going to kill her anyway."

Natasha snapped her head away. The sharp shadows on her face told Clint she was clenching her jaw. "Do not say those words to me ever again."

"They're true."

"You have no idea what you're talking about." Natasha stood up, balancing on tingling legs.

Clint winced as she stepped toward the hatch. "Tasha, wait!" he called, reaching out to catch her hand. "I didn't . . . I mean I . . ." He let her hand fall back to her side and stared down at the deck and black ocean waves below. "I don't know how to handle this."

She paused for a moment, then took her seat beside him, tucking her legs up beside her. "Neither do I."

"Were you ever going to tell me?"

"Yes, I was."

"If I hadn't come across that file, when? When would I have earned it? When could I handle it?"

"I hope you don't think that's what this is about."

"It's been three years; that's not enough time? What is?"

"I don't know. Honestly, I hadn't thought about it. Maybe it would never be enough time."

"What? You just said you would tell -"

"I said I _was _going to tell you."

"Well, _when_?"

"As soon as we got back from Budapest. And I was going to tell you something very different."

Clint paused and cocked his head over toward Natasha. "What?"

"Please, whatever you think of me right now, don't think I wanted this. I was panicked and nervous and scared, but Clint, I was happy. That phony little dream life we were living back in Budapest, it suddenly became real, and I . . . I wanted it. All of it." She shook her head and almost laughed. "I know that must sound absurd coming from my mouth."

Clint placed a hand on her shoulder. "No, it doesn't. Not to me."

"We came so close. So damn close."

Clint grew quite. The colors in his face shifted, and Natasha wasn't sure if it was the moonlight or if he had simply gone pale.

"You okay?"

He nodded. "Yeah. It just kind of hit me. Three years. We would have a three-year-old. Can you imagine that? Our little girl running around with those crazy red curls on her head. At least we don't have any superpowers to worry about, but still, can you imagine the look on Fury's face when we told him?"

"Coulson wouldn't have smiled wider until they fished Cap out of the ice," she said softly.

"And I bet -"

Natasha reached her hand up. "That's enough."

"What, you never wonder what it would have been like?"

"No. I don't need the pain that follows."

Clint only nodded in reply. He understood what she meant. That happy little fantasy seemed to shatter, sending cold shards of pain up through his chest. Clint drew in long, slow breaths until he could focus again. He opened his mouth to ask another question, then thought better of it. Natasha caught the motion out of the corner of her eye.

"Just say it," she said.

"Natasha, what happened?"

"I almost couldn't take it, you know. I wanted to tell you that night, in the basement, but I just couldn't make myself say the words."

"After the party, and the river and the apartment? If that didn't change your mind then Natasha, _what happened?_"

She remained quiet, waiting for Clint to put the pieces together, unsure she would be able to say it herself.

"It was the girl, wasn't it? The girl Varga killed by the playground."

Natasha nodded.

"But Tasha, other children died in the school, in the smoke. You've - " He cut him self off, not wanting to say the next phrase too bluntly. "You're been party to . . . similar horrors."

"It's stupid really. I didn't even know her name, and I don't intend to find it. Logically she shouldn't have been different. Losing that logic nearly cost us both our lives, and consciously I knew that but . . . I promised I would protect her. I held her in my arms and told her I would keep her safe. I couldn't."

"So that was it?"

"As soon as I registered what had happened, I knew. I knew I couldn't make that promise again. Not if I couldn't keep it."

"On a street halfway around the world with six guns against god knows how many thugs, with no backup and a busted ankle, sure. But later, with the full force of S.H.I.E.L.D. behind us? There had to be a way. Surely if -."

"If what? Zoltán Varga killed a child just to try to shake me. Her only fault was that I was nearby. I refuse to imagine what bigger thugs with bigger guns would try to do to our little girl!"

"Your mind does anyway though, right?"

Natasha clapped a hand to her mouth and mumbled,"It makes me want to be sick."

Clint placed a hand gingerly on her back. He felt the soft material of her jacket rub beneath his fingers as her hunched back rose and fell. He tried not to picture the atrocities her bloodstained brain might be dreaming up.

Her breathing returned to normal but she kept her eyes on the water. "It just wasn't in the cards. Not for us."

She jumped slightly as Clint slammed his hands hard against the Helicarrier's rigid surface. "I hate this!" he screamed into the cool night air. "I hate you, and me and Fury and Varga and S.H.I.E.L.D. and everybody! I hate these bullshit lives we've been given! I hate what you did and I hate seeing you hurt! I hate that I was too stupid to notice! I hate -"

"Clint."

He settled back down and his voice grew quiet. "I hate that you're right."

Natasha shifted closer, closing the gap between them. She touched his shoulder, and when he didn't shake her off, she wrapped her arms around him and rested her head against his arm.

"How did you make peace with it?" he asked.

"I didn't. I doubt I'll ever make peace with most of the things I've done. But I've made quite, made calm, made acceptance, made it so the blackness doesn't swallow me whole. You know, what we do."

"What we do too often."

"Until we can't do it anymore." Natasha paused. "I never thanked you."

"We agreed a long time ago, we're always even. I save your life; you save mine."

"I mean off the field. When we arrived in Budapest, I felt like I was drowning . . . in the blood, in the lies, in what I've become. You held me up until I could breath again. Thank you."

"God knows you've since repaid the favor. After New York . . . " Clint shuddered. "The aftermath of Loki's spell messed me up. You got me through."

"I guess that's what we do, huh? Hold each other up. Fill in the gaps and patch the broken pieces."

"That's why you'll never compromise me Tasha. You make me function, make me whole."

Natasha lifted her head. "Really? 'You complete me.' Is that what you just said to me?" She threw a playful smack at his arm.

"Too tacky?"

"By a long shot," she said, though her mind drifted back to all the art books that had gone up in smoke so long ago. Gustave Klimt's 'The Kiss' resonated in her memory, the young couple kneeling in embrace, the shades of yellow and gold in their clothing blurring into one mass of color. "By a long shot."

Clint smiled. "I bet you I could make that shot."

Natasha rolled her eyes. "What am I ever going to do with you, Clint Barton?"

Clint opened his mouth, a snarky reply on the tip of his tongue, but he stopped short.

"What is it?"

"I just remembered something. During New York, when there was so much chaos in the streets and aliens pouring out of the sky, you mentioned Budapest."

"Right, I guess I did. So?"

"Well you compared New York to Budapest, said they seemed the same to you. I remember thinking that was weird, because to me a botched terrorist takedown is very different from an alien invasion. But now? After all this? Then I was surprised; now I'm just confused."

"It's not the two situations that were similar. New York is, and hopefully will stay, in a category all its own. What was the same was that feeling. That feeling of being completely surrounded and overwhelmed, knowing that you're outnumbered and under-equipped and probably won't come out alive. Knowing that this time, so much more than yourself is at stake if you fail. "Believe me, I was as surprised as anyone when those words came out of my mouth. That was the last thing I needed to be thinking about during a battle for the entire planet. Somehow though, maybe it helped me.

"Listen, I know I have no right at all to ask this but -"

"Do I think we'll be okay?" Clint finished.

"Yeah."

"I want to know as badly as you do."

"But you're not sure."

"No, I'm not. This is a lot to process, Natasha, a lot to work through."

She hung her head, nodding. "I understand."

Clint grabbed her hand. "Knowing us, though, we'll make it through. Somehow."

Natasha smiled and stood up.

"Don't you want to stay and watch the sunrise?" asked Clint as he gestured to the lightening sky. "What too symbolic for you?"

"I've seen more sunrises than most people would care to count," she said. "Right now though, I feel like I might actually get a few good hours of sleep."

He watched her disappear down the hatch, then turned back to gaze at the city glittering across the bay.

**A/N: I don't know if these chapters are starting to feel kind of final, but this is NOT the end. : )**

**Thanks for reading! **


	30. Nightmares

Six weeks later

Fury shook his head and sighed. He swiped his finger over his desk, flipping again through the digital file. "You're sure?"

"Yes sir," a pixelated agent replied through the video feed. "This photo was taken off of a security camera feed last week, and tech's got an 83 percent match on the features. Coupled with the recent chatter coming in, it's undeniable."

"Agreed. Thank you Agent Bradshaw. Dismissed." The video line faded away, leaving only the blue-tinted file spread out on the desk. With two fingers, Fury expanded the imaged before him. "I'm going to regret this." He tapped on the corner of the desk, opening up a radio line. "Get me Barton and Romanoff."

Clint walked into the conference room to find familiar red curls already seated at the table. He approached the table slowly and put his hand on the back of the chair next to hers. He stood there for a moment before taking a step to the side and reaching for the next chair over. As he went to sit down, the chair beside Natasha swiveled toward him. Her boot guided the bottom of the chair but her eyes remained glued to the table. Clint sat down on the spongey cushion and spun to face the table, coming to a stop beside her.

"Hey," said Natasha.

"Hey. I, you know, haven't seen you much lately."

"I've been around. How've you been?"

"Me? Good. Busy. Same old, same old. You?"

"Yeah, no. Ok."

Clint laughed a broken, uneasy laugh.

"Something funny?" Natasha asked, trying to chuckle some of the tension away as well.

"We sound ridiculous."

"I don't know. It could have gone worse considering . . ."

"Yeah. Considering."

They paused. Natasha took long, mediative breaths; Clint fidgeted back and forth in the conference chair.

"Clint, where are we?"

"I don't know if now's the best time . . ."

"No. Please," said Fury as he strode through a smaller side door. "You took the words right out of my mouth."

They stayed quiet.

"And I'm sure I don't need to remind you that lying will only put yourselves and others in danger. I need an honest update, otherwise you're dismissed until you come up with one."

Clint and Natasha turned to face each other. Their eyes met and they exchanged glances, then nodded.

"We're alright," said Clint. "Rocky but alright."

"Good. Because I think you'll want to hear this." Fury placed a hand on the table and flung two digital blue boxes across the table with a quick flick of his wrist. The boxes expanded into full-sized file folders, which Clint and Natasha opened in sync. Natasha's hand went still over the table's glassy surface. Clint's balled into a fist.

"Varga," Clint spat. "Where is he?"

"This was caught on a pawn shop's security feed last week, less than a mile outside of Budapest."

"So the city's still his target," said Natasha.

"My sources haven't heard a peep about anyone moving that much nuclear material anywhere in the region, so it would appear so. Whether he shares the Szabo brothers' goals or he simply can't move the material, I don't know. But chatter indicates he's gearing up for something. We've been watching him gather men and materials for three years now."

"All this time, I thought you'd lost him."

"This is S.H.I.E.L.D. We don't lose people."

Clint slammed his fists on the table. "Then go after him! You know where his is, we can all guess at what he's doing. Stop him!"

"Patience Barton. We have to wait until we have all the intel, until we know exactly what he's doing so we can stop it. All of it."

"That worked real well last time. Not striking until the gears were already in motion nearly cost us our lives!"

Natasha looked away so she didn't have to watch Clint and Fury avoiding her eyes.

Fury straightened. "You're really going to try to pin Budapest on me?"

"Shouldn't I? You could have gone in with a strike team and taken them down."

"Without proof? Without a clue as to what they were up too or how they planned to pull it off. Not to mention all the loose ends that would leave."

"Who cares?"

"Zoltán Varga is a _loose end_. He has the TPE's plans and their nuclear material and if he's not stopped, your time in Budapest will have been for nothing."

Clint stood up out of his chair, bracing his arms on the table. The pages beneath his palms rippled on the table as the force of Clint's hands pressed on the screen.

"Settle down Barton."

"How dare you -"

"_Now."_

Natasha reached a hand out to his bulging arm and ushered him back into his seat.

"That weasel is mine."

"That weasel is none of your business. Not officially."

"Then why did you call us here?"

"Consider it a courtesy call. I thought you had a right to know."

"How are you going after Varga?" Natasha asked.

"We believe we've pinned down the location of Varga's headquarters, in an old warehouse in the factory district northwest of the city limits. The Covert-Ops team will infiltrate and shut down his operation as quietly as possible, with Strike Team Sierra stationed at a half-mile perimeter for backup. The bomb squad will also be on hand in case Varga's already assembled any devices. But you don't need me to tell you any of that. It's all in the file."

"Let us come," said Natasha.

Fury chuckled.

"We're _fine,"_ Clint shouted.

"Like hell you are. You're clouded by emotion, and you're out for Varga's blood, not his bombs. You couldn't be objective if you tried. And we all know how that almost ended last time."

Now Natasha's fingers curled into a fist beside Clint's.

"Like I said, this was a courtesy, nothing more. You're both under lockdown until the transport leaves for Hungary."

"You can't do this!"

"You're dismissed."

"Director -"

"_Dismissed. _Stay out of the way." He turned with a snap and strode out of the room, his black trench coat flapping behind him.

"This is bull," Clint muttered as he stormed out the other door.

Natasha remained at the table. Opening the file again, she flipped through, scanned the pages and seared the information into her memory. When she reached the grainy but unmistakable photo of Zoltán Varga, she paused. Her fingers tensed and dragged along the surface until they were a tight ball. The computer followed her instructions, crumpling and creasing the digital image until it resembled a ball of paper. Natasha swiped the file away and left the room.

"I though I might find you here," she said as she wove through swinging punching bags and humming treadmills to the far corner of the gym. Agents buzzed around, adding footfalls and sharp breathing to the clink of equipment; two sparred in the boxing ring.

Clint stood alone in the far corner. He had dragged a training dummy shaped like a human head and torso onto the square of blue mats and was punching and kicking it mercilessly, threatening to knock its sand-filled base to the ground. "Brilliant. It's not like I'm here very often."

Natasha threw in a hand and deflected Clint's next punch so his hand sailed past its rubbery target. He twisted his wrist, wrapped his fingers over Natasha's arm and pulled to toward him, the reversed the momentum and sent her scooting backward.

"Thanks for your help back there. I appreciate it."

"You wanted us both to go toe to toe with Fury? What exactly would that accomplish?"

Clint through another strike. "Hard to know since you just sat there."

"Did you even listen to what Fury was saying? 'It's not your business _officially.'_ 'Stay out of the way.' He wants us to go."

Clint scooped up a water bottle from the side of the mat and squirted a stream into his mouth. "It crossed my mind," he gurgled. "But if you're wrong?"

"We still get Varga. Beyond that, do you care?"

Clint lowered the water bottle and wiped a bead of sweat off his brow. "Maybe Fury's right."

"Exactly so -"

"No, I mean even if his is giving us permission to go after Varga - and I'm not convinced he is - maybe we shouldn't. Maybe we are too emotionally compromised to handle this one."

"I thought we didn't _get_ compromised."

"We don't get _each other_ compromised. There's a third party involved this time and you know you can't keep a level head."

"I'll worry about my head when Varga's dead. I thought you wanted this anyway. Twenty minutes ago you were begging Fury to let you go."

"Yes but -"

"But what? You somehow made you peace with Budapest in the past five minutes? Please do share the secret."

"I'm not going to let you get hurt over this. Last time we went after this guy at less than one hundred percent, I came a few pints of blood away from a hole in the ground. Now we're more compromised and more emotional, so what do you think is going to happen? I want Varga as badly as you do, but I'm not willing to risk your life over it."

"Then I guess you don't want him as badly as I do."

Natasha turned to walk away and Clint clenched his hand hard around her arm. "Don't play that game with me."

She gritted her teeth and tried to walk way, but Clint adjusted his grip. He placed his hands gently on her shoulders. "They'll get him. Whether or not we're there, S.H.I.E.L.D. will take him down."

"I hope that helps you sleep tonight," Natasha said over her shoulder as she wove her way out of the gym.

Natasha laid in her darkened quarters, nearly identical the way S.H.I.E.L.D. had issued them. She tossed between her misty green sheets, the only change she had made to the decor. Natasha's eyes stayed shut as she tossed in a fitful sleep.

Blood. So much blood. And faces. Contorted faces floated by. Bodies writhed in agony in the ankle-deep blood. Natasha was there, on her knees in the shining crimson goo. The blood had become firm, alive. It wrapped itself around her like the tendrils of an angry vine, its many branches reaching out and holding her in place. Her wrists, her back, her head, she couldn't move. Tiny blood vines snaked across her face, grabbing her eyelids and holding them open, forcing her to witness the horrors before her.

The blood at her knees began to churn and ripple. Another tendril shot out from the pool. Natasha tried to jerk away but the vines only gripped her tighter. The new vine snaked its way up her body, flooding the black leather and metal belt buckle of her uniform with blood. It reached her face and paused to caress her fair cheek, just as so many of her marks had done, then plunged into her throat. The taste of iron overwhelmed her as the stream of blood grew more and more powerful. It swelled until her throat was full. As her mouth filled to the brim, the pressure increased until the bloody tendrils wormed their way into her nose. Her nasal passages screamed as blood dripped down her face. Her heart beat faster; she couldn't breathe! But the blood kept coming, and despite the burning in her lungs she remained alert.

Then she saw it. A fire sparked on the edges of her vision, and soon the entire field of blood crackled with fire. The flames raced closer and dense smoke filled the air.

Then, out of the smoke, that one soft gentle face appeared. She smiled at Natasha with the same delicate jawline. Strands of dark auburn hair hung at the edges of her face. Behind all the screaming bodies arounds her, Natasha could pick out the words to an old Russian lullaby. Whether the voice belonged to her or her mother, she couldn't tell.

The face vanished into the smoke and the flames shot toward her, up all the blood tendrils and to her skin. As soon as the burn hit, the vines disappeared, replaced by circular blood drops hitting her skin. The blood melted away from her throat, but the blood drops stung like acid. Natasha looked down to find the nameless Hungarian girl limp in her arms. Zoltán Varga stood over them, gun pointed at Natasha's face. His mouth twisted into that wicked sneer and he laughed. As he laughed, his form paled and grew until his face filled up her entire field of view. Then suddenly it crumpled, folding on itself like an unwanted piece of paper until he was gone.

The girl vanished but so did the floor. Natasha fell helplessly in a dark, endless pit. The floor only appeared a second before she hit it and then -

Natasha sat bolt upright in bed. Her creamy silk slip stuck to her damp back and her curls clung to her neck. The rumpled green sheets clustered in balls beneath her fists. Her mouth hung open but no sound came out. She had learned not to scream a long time ago. She shut her jaw and tried to draw in deep breaths of the cool, air conditioned air. Natasha found herself wishing, as she often did, that Clint was beside her. She could go find him; his quarters were at the other end of the hall. _No,_ she stopped herself, _we're not really at that place right now. We're nowhere near that place. _Natasha buried her head in her knees, feeling the sweat cooling on her back. "Screw it."

Natasha swung her legs over the side of her bed and padded down the metal hallway in her bare feet. She rapped her knuckles on Clint's door. No answer. Natasha turned the handle and let the heavy door swing open. Clint's room lit up with a bright column of light, Natasha a silhouette in the center of it. She closed her eyes and said the only word she could think so say. "Please."

When Clint still didn't answer, she stepped over the high threshold and into the room. "Clint?"

He climbed part way down the ladder. "It didn't help me sleep. Every time I shut my eyes I see Varga's slimy face."

"Yeah, I thought not."

"You?"

"Oh I slept. Wish I hadn't."

"You're still in your pajamas?"

"I thought you liked this one. And why do you care?"

Clint climbed a few rungs higher, into the black shadow surrounding the top of the ladder. A worn canvas duffle bag dropped down to the floor below him. He climbed back into the dim light with two flight deck oxygen masks hanging from his fingers. "Cuz I'm just waiting on you."

Fury sat at his desk, his office bathed in dim light. Only the screen of his desk glowed a bright blue. Taping up a side panel, he checked the clock. The teams on their way to take down Varga had left half an hour earlier.

A knock came from the door, but a slightly frazzled agent didn't wait for a response before busting into the room. "Director Fury, sir," he said as he scrambled toward the desk. "There has been an unauthorized heliplane takeoff from deck section seven."

The agent raised his eyebrow as Fury looked up and smiled. "Excellent."

"Sir? Should we execute emergency protocols and take them down?"

"No," the director replied. "Let them go."


End file.
